


Bittersweet in the Sunlight

by 2bestfriends



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Not the sexy kind), (both the sexy kind and the not sexy kind-steve is always sexy), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blood Drinking, Come Marking, Dacryphilia, Daddy Kink, Desk Sex, Flirting, Gift Giving, Happy Ending, Hedonism, Hook-Up, Identity Reveal, Knotting, Lace Panties, Language of Flowers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Modern Supernatural Fantasy, Multi, Name-Calling, Non-Graphic Violence, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Public Humiliation, Rimming, Scenting, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Work, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Vampires, Werewolf Steve Rogers, Werewolves, alpine is bucky's best and only friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26705218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2bestfriends/pseuds/2bestfriends
Summary: 200 years is a long time to be lonely, but much like everything Bucky puts his mind to, he has perfected it. He has a string of dedicated human suitors and a well-curated existence of luxury and excess with no motivation to see a shift in his status quo. Then he meets Steve Rogers.Steve's life has been long and full of pack, family, and love. These days, he lives comfortably and loves at his leisure, content to be part of a well-established pack that has flourished for centuries, both in his homeland of Ireland and in New York.Meeting James Barnes provides an unexpected amusement that he's more than happy to indulge in.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Male Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 407
Kudos: 886
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Giveusakiss4132](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveusakiss4132/gifts).



> For [Giveusakiss4132](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giveusakiss4132/profile), who bid on us for Fandom Trumps Hate 2020! 
> 
> Thank you so much to [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/) for creating art for our story!!

* * *

* * *

It’s a dull night. 

Steve probably should have put more effort into delegating this show to someone else, but it is, after all, his gallery, and the fashion show was unfortunately his idea. Arguably the main event of the evening, people are here for fashion, even if Steve cares more about the up and coming artists he hand-picked that are displaying their work in the space surrounding the temporary catwalk.

Deeply reluctant to actually attend, the doors have barely opened and he’s already dutifully glad-handed with the guests and made all the necessary introductions, and now he’s ready to go. The smell of so many people in one room is always a little overwhelming, perfumes and lotions and cologne overlaid over natural sweat all mixed together into one stifling cloud. 

It’s exhausting. Steve’s itching to leave, about to apologetically text America, his gallery manager, with his intention to bail early when a very particular scent catches his attention.

Despite the fact that they share the commonality of immortality—both the subject of fairytales and nightmares alike—Steve hasn't actually spent a lot of time in the company of vampires. While werewolves are family-oriented and naturally choose to live in large groups, vampires are solitary creatures; secretive and reclusive, they rely on their obsessive acolytes to keep them fed and entertained while staying out of the limelight. 

In over 400 years, Steve has met exactly three vampires—one of which he assisted in killing, but that's neither here nor there. 

The vampire who just walked in is on the arm of a newer collector to the scene, Patrick Keller. Steve has no opinion on him, though he has seen him at other events, but never in the company of the gorgeous little thing he's brought this evening. The vampire’s pale skin contrasts sharply with his dark hair, which cascades over his shoulders in artfully styled waves. His full, soft lips share the pink coloring of his cheeks, enhanced perhaps by a touch of shaded gloss or a recent meal, and he’s got a cute dimpled chin that reflects his artificial youth.

Suddenly a little more invested in staying, Steve leans up against the bar and sips at his drink, savoring the warmth that curls over his tongue. It’s shallow, perhaps, but this encounter is truly an uncommon novelty. 

Vampires don't smell unpleasant, which is maybe the most surprising thing about them. Before Steve ever encountered one, he assumed they'd smell, well, _dead_. Their hearts don't pump blood, after all, and dead flesh and un-oxygenated blood seem conducive to decay and rot. 

In reality, though, they don't smell much at all; it's a neutral, benign scent characterized by the absence of sweat, which is largely what people smell like, to varying degrees. Beneath that, there's something earthy, and cool, like a dry, clean cellar. It doesn't make a lot of sense, and Steve, newly-intrigued by a very rare occurrence, focuses his attention on the vampire accordingly. 

At first, he just watches. 

Keller and the vampire are on the edge of Steve's hearing in such a big, loud room, and he's busy admiring the vampire's lithe, youthful body, and the impeccable way all his best features have been highlighted by the snug fit of his designer jeans and the tailored cut of his dress shirt, opened down to his clavicle to expose a bit of pale chest. There's that tantalizing flush to his cheeks, his plush lips pink when they curve around a coy grin. Steve glances at Keller's neck, but he's wearing a scarf. 

They move closer to the bar, allowing Steve to more comfortably isolate their conversation as the vampire drapes himself over Keller's arm. 

"—that's ridiculous," he's saying. "Pat, baby, I'm not here to stand at the bar alone. You don't want me to charm your friends?"

"Not right now," Keller replies. "Jamie, just—grab a drink, take a look around, mingle, and I'll be back in—half an hour?"

The vampire—Jamie—lets Keller's arm drop like it's a dead mouse. He must have been quite young when he died—the soft give of his chin is even more evident when his face is melting into an extravagant pout. "You brought me here to not even be _seen_ with me?"

"I brought you here," says Keller, an impatient edge to his voice, "to be available to me when I want you. I don't want you for this. Go, occupy yourself like a good boy, and maybe I'll get you a treat later."

Jamie’s expression magnifies into unadulterated outrage before smoothing over into a cool, detached smile. "Of course. You know where to find me." Then he turns around and flounces to the bar, easily slipping between other patrons and finding a seat to perch on. He signals the bartender, glancing once over his shoulder at his date before narrowing his eyes and looking away. "Yes, excuse me, I'll have a martini."

* * *

* * *

Steve stays where he is, a few seats down from Jamie and perfectly placed to watch his every move, which initially seems to be sitting and pouting while sipping delicately at his gin. He is, quite frankly, adorable.

A few minutes of sulking go by before his sharp eyes finally start taking in his surroundings, and Steve can see the exact moment Jamie notices him; his lips part on a wordless sound while his gaze flicks appreciatively over Steve with obvious greed. 

What a little _brat_. Here with someone else and already on the hunt just because he's been ignored for a few precious minutes. 

Steve grins at him when their eyes finally meet, raising his glass in Jamie’s direction before he tips his head, indicating the empty seat next to him.

Just like Steve expected, Jamie doesn't move right away. Everything about his body language screams insouciance; a man like Jamie wouldn't be caught dead looking desperate.

Instead, his large, slate gray eyes flick down to give Steve another once over, longer and slower, and then he meets Steve's gaze again, his lip curving up into a small smile. He turns towards Steve, long legs spread where he's perched primly on his stool, and he delicately picks up his glass to drain his martini in one swallow, tipping his head back to expose the length of throat. 

Well. Steve licks his lips and raises his eyebrows, meeting Jamie's cool eyes when he finishes his drink and sets it on the bar. Then, when it's very clear he's finished what he was doing previously and he is only joining Steve because he _decided_ to, he gracefully slips off his stool and commandeers the empty seat next to Steve. 

"Hey, sailor," says Jamie. "Buy me a drink?"

Steve smirks, nodding and signaling the bartender. 

"Dirty martini," Jamie says to him. "Extra olives, please."

_Dirty martini for a dirty boy_ , Steve thinks. "Hi," he says, "You having a good time tonight, sugar?"

"Well," drawls Jamie, pretending to consider his answer, but Steve would bet his considerable wealth on the assumption that the little brat already has several contingency plans for manipulating this conversation into the exact outcome he wants. "I wasn't, but things are starting to look up."

"Oh?" Steve leans a little closer, taking a good long look at him. His thighs fill out his pants ridiculously well, hinting at a plump ass that Steve has yet to check out. His jawline is sharp despite the softness of his chin and his movements are fluid and graceful. "Do I have the honor of making your night?"

Jamie lets out a laugh, the sound sweet and amused. "We'll just see about that."

"I guess we will." Steve pauses as the martini is delivered. While Jamie perches on a stool, Steve has been leaning up against the bar; as the crowd grows, more bodies press in to catch the bartender’s attention, and Steve uses this as an excuse to step in closer, until he's pressed along Jamie's side, though he hardly seems to mind. "What brings you here? A big fan of art?"

Jamie hums, shrugging one elegant shoulder. "Sometimes. Depends on the art."

"A man of discerning taste, then," murmurs Steve. "Into fashion?"

This close, the curious lack of scent that characterizes Jamie is even more obvious. He's not even wearing cologne, so everything about him is muted and inoffensive. His hair, clean and shiny and loosely styled, is the only scent that fills Steve's nose with the lingering chemical odor of shampoo and conditioner. 

"Oh, yes, I do like expensive things," Jamie sighs, winking at Steve. "And you—?"

"Steve," he says, finally draining the last of his drink. 

"Steve," echoes Jamie. "Are you an artist? Or a designer?"

"Owner," says Steve evenly, and Jamie's eyes spark with interest. 

"Of?"

"The gallery," Steve says, with a casual shrug. 

" _Well_ ," says Jamie. "You are the man to talk to, then."

Steve considers him. "Am I? Does that mean I'll get to learn your name?"

Jamie grins widely, perfect white teeth that are deceptively straight and even. "James Barnes."

“James,” repeats Steve, letting the single syllable drag out. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise.” Jamie says. James? Is Jamie a chosen nickname, or one his date assigned? “I’m surprised you’re here alone, Steve. A man like you…. Shouldn’t you have a pretty young thing hanging onto your arm and falling all over you?”

Steve lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t I?” 

That gets a laugh out of James. He leans forward and places a hand on Steve’s thigh, high enough to be suggestive but not so high as to be obvious to everyone looking. “And if you do? What then?”

“Well, in that case... I’d probably invite you to see some pieces that aren’t on display on the main floor.” Steve cocks his head. “In my office?”

James’s voice drops to a register that would barely be audible if Steve were human. “As long as by ‘show me a few paintings,’ you actually mean, ‘fuck me hard and fast’, then... sure, I’d love to see your office.”

What a forward, hedonistic creature. The few vampires Steve’s met in the past have largely been reserved, holding themselves at a distance from the world, but this one seems ravenous for every bit of life he can get. 

“Oh, definitely.” He stands, holding out his hand. “Shall we?”

James takes it without hesitation, not a single glance around. He hops off the stool with delicate grace and hooks his arm in Steve’s. “Lead the way.”

It's not exactly how Steve pictured the rest of his night going, but he isn't about to turn down a fun distraction. He's always been grateful for direct, demanding sexual partners; the honesty is refreshing and usually leaves little room for misunderstandings. 

"My pleasure," he says, tucking James against his side and weaving them through the crowd. The stairs up to his office are blocked off by security, who both step aside with a nod from Steve, and even that simple show of authority has James preening next to him. 

"You thought maybe I was lying," Steve murmurs, guiding him upstairs and down the hall. 

"Not exactly," says James. "I thought maybe you had an in, or knew a sneaky way to find a private spot. Either way, I'm gonna bend over for you."

Steve presses his thumb to the biometric scanner outside his office, and the door unlocks with a soft click, Steve pushing the door open to let James inside. "So, you're just easy, then?" he teases lightly. "I shouldn't feel special?"

"Oh, no, you should feel very special," says James, turning around in front of Steve to walk backwards. He stops himself at Steve's big oak desk, perching his ass on the wood and bracing his hands either side of his slim hips. "I have very discerning taste."

Steve hums, closing the door behind him and then slipping out of his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. "I can tell," he agrees. "You're here in my gallery, after all."

James raises his eyebrow, grinning sharply. There's nothing about him, currently, that would give him away to anyone that didn't have senses as enhanced as Steve's. Now, in an enclosed space away from a big crowd, his status is clear; everything about James is quiet. No heartbeat and no working lungs—just the residual flush of someone else's blood rising to his cheeks as he reaches up to pop the button at his throat. 

Whether he's registered that Steve isn't human in return remains to be seen. Steve doesn't think he has, but he'll keep his guard up, regardless, should this encounter turn out to be something else entirely.

Steve strips his shirt off and then reaches for his belt buckle, slow and deliberate as he undoes it, watching as James removes his own clothes. He’s pretty, his skin unmarked, with pert little nipples, everything about his body smooth and pampered. 

It makes Steve want to mark him up. 

"How do you want this to go?" he asks, discarding the rest of his clothes neatly and prowling forward. 

James smirks, like the question is funny, pushing his tight pants down over his hips. He's not wearing underwear, but Steve would have been surprised if he was.

"I think what I'd really enjoy is you spreading me out on this desk and slicking yourself up, then forcing me open with that beautiful cock," says James, looking directly at the cock in question. "I want you to fuck me as hard and fast as you can give it to me. I know I look slender, but I promise, I don't break."

Meeting James at the desk, Steve pulls open a drawer and finds the condoms and lube he keeps inside. Taking someone up here isn't a frequent occurrence, but he likes to be prepared. It doesn't seem to phase James at all. He just steps out of his pants, kicking them away before hopping up on the desk and spreading his legs. 

That motion reveals a slim silver handle tucked between his cheeks, the base of a plug that’s apparently been filling him up all evening. Steve barely contains a growl of interest. "Well, aren't you the prepared little slut."

James only laughs, leaning back on his elbows to watch, letting Steve do all the work like the princess he is. "Well, these parties can be boring. Sometimes I have to keep myself occupied."

"Occupied," Steve echoes, pressing between James's spread legs. "Ready to go, you mean?"

"Should the situation arise," says James, "yes. Who wants to fuss with prep?"

Steve reaches between his cheeks to grip the base of the plug, amused, and tugs lightly. He's expecting a fairly small toy, considering he's just wearing it throughout the very public evening, but when he pulls, James's body gives up a substantial metal plug that provides a fair bit of resistance against his slick rim. "Well," Steve rumbles, arousal deepening his voice. "You're prepared for anything, then."

James tosses his head back, lips parted, his expression decidedly smug. He draws a leg up, bending his knee to balance his heel delicately against the edge of the desk. Steve stopped drawing the plug out of his body at the toy's widest part, but James seems unbothered by being kept on edge, just opening himself up further. "You make your own fun in this world, Steve," he says breathily. 

Steve smiles despite himself, bracing his free hand on James's thigh and giving the plug a leisurely twist before popping it out. James swallows, throat bobbing, and the muscles in his abdomen relax, the only sign that his body has released tension he did not otherwise advertise. His eyes settle greedily on Steve's cock, then flick up to meet Steve's gaze pointedly. "Did you need something?" Steve asks mildly. He sets the plug on the desk and opens a condom, rolling it onto his dick. 

"I don't need anything from you," says James. "I _want_ your dick. Are you the kind of man that needs to hear me beg?"

"I’m the kind of man that doesn’t need or want anything from you that I haven't earned," says Steve, because it's true. He doesn't need theatrics or empty pleas that ultimately mean nothing when they both already know he's going to fuck James tonight. He spreads slick over his cock and guides the head to James's open, gaping hole, just enough to make pressing against it an easier slide. He slips in about two inches, pulls back, and then makes sure James is looking at him before he slams forward, burying himself balls-deep in the snug, warm little hole. "But I'm always open to feedback, in whatever form it should take."

James's mouth falls open on a quiet cry, body arching into the wicked thrust. His hands tighten on the edge of the desk. "Oh fuck, you're big," he groans. "Yeah, that's—that's good, now, _move_."

"Has anyone ever told you that you’re a demanding brat?" Steve grunts. He still gives James what he asked for, driving into him at a brutal, fast pace. He's careful, though, careful not to go beyond the limits of what a normal man his size and build could muster. He's doubtful he'll see this brazen little creature again, so he's in no hurry to reveal his own secret. Capturing James's thigh in his hand, Steve holds him open, slapping into him at an angle that drags involuntary noises of pleasure from James.

"Oh, _god_ ," James groans. His throat bobs as he swallows, fingers gripping the edge of the desk to keep himself in place against the force of Steve's hips. He seems determined to take every thrust as hard and rough as possible, tightening up around Steve's cock. The drag and the friction, despite James's prep work and the slick, is a delicious counterpoint to the pleasure. Steve half-wishes he could shift, could let loose with abandon and drill this hungry slut into the floor and knot him, keep him mounted like he so sorely needs. 

But he won't, not even a little.

Steve just hammers into his willing body again and again while James rewards him with throaty moans, cock hard and drooling against his stomach, balls drawn up tight. He's warmer than Steve thought he would be.

It's more information on vampires gathered passively in half an hour than Steve's managed to learn in almost four centuries. He's positive James has fed on Keller today, likely within hours of them arriving at this event, giving James the facsimile of life. In all Steve's other encounters, the vampires were far less committed to emulating humanity; in the one Steve was forced to kill, the creature was freshly turned and monstrous in its fledgling thirst, so far gone it had been twisted beyond recognition. 

But James— 

James is warm and tight, losing himself in the pleasure Steve is giving him. He takes the driving pressure with ease, tightening up deliciously and keeping himself braced with little effort. In a test of strength, Steve is pretty sure he'd win regardless, but he does wonder how well-matched they'd be, if they weren't both pretending to be normal. 

It's a fun thought, but unlikely to become reality. James hasn't offered him that information, and Steve doesn't plan on being the one to come clean. 

Instead, he concentrates on giving James exactly what he asked for: a good, hard fuck to distract him from his disappointing evening. In return, James finally picks himself up from where he'd draped his back over Steve's desk, reaching out to tangle his long fingers in Steve's hair and jerk him into a kiss. 

Steve obliges, opening his mouth against James's parted lips, sliding his tongue in for a kiss that's not as urgent as the hard thrust of his hips. It's leisurely, almost sweet, in comparison, and James practically purrs against Steve's mouth. 

"You're cute," he mumbles, fingers tangled in Steve's hair. "Much more fun than I thought you'd be."

"Thanks for the glowing performance review," pants Steve, winded not from exertion but because he's getting close. 

"Mmm, any time," sighs James, pulling Steve close enough to nose at his throat. 

For a split second, Steve wonders if he's going to try it, if he's going to bite without permission, but then... then it's just the soft flick of his tongue. He sucks against Steve's throat like he wants to leave a mark and Steve lets him. It'll heal soon anyway.

Reaching between them, Steve wraps a helping hand around James's cock and starts to jack him in time to his thrusts, catching his mouth in another consuming kiss. It doesn't take long before James lets out a high whine and comes, wet splashing against Steve's stomach and hand. 

If he had a brain cell to spare, he'd wonder more about that, question the presence of bodily fluids in an undead creature—but as it is, the spasming of James's hole around Steve's cock has him suitably distracted. He groans roughly before he buries in deep, letting his orgasm wash over him.

In the aftermath, there are a few moments in which there's nothing but Steve's heavy breathing and what must be James's practiced panting. 

Steve knows they both have to get back to the party. He pushes off of him, reaching down to take hold of the condom. James doesn't move as he pulls out and disposes of it, just looks up at him with a hungry expression. Finally, he says, "Be a doll and put that plug back where you found it?"

A tiny flicker of heat curls tight at the base of Steve's belly. It wouldn't take much at all to get him going again, but unfortunately, this encounter is now over, no matter how much Steve would enjoy taking James home and really letting him have it. 

So, he plucks up the discarded plug, making a show of using his free hand to hold James's legs open before he slides the thick toy back inside him, stuffing that hungry little hole full. It disappears easily into his body, loose and open. Steve gives the base a cursory twist and then pats James's ass dismissively, pulling away from him, job done. 

He's tempted to ask who else James is keeping himself available for, wondering if he can get him to bring up Keller himself, but James just unfurls from the desk and unselfconsciously begins to pick up his clothes and redress himself. James is far from meticulous about it, so Steve follows his lead; he's on his way out regardless, and it's not like he has anyone to explain himself to. 

When they're both fully dressed, Steve offers James his arm again, and something like real delight, fizzy and bright, spreads over James's face. 

"A gentleman, hm?" he murmurs, letting Steve guide him out. 

"Not really," says Steve. "What kind of gallery owner would I be, if I allowed you to find your way out of a restricted area on your own?"

James laughs. "Point taken."

"Not that I don't trust you," Steve says lightly. He trusts James about as far as he can throw him, perhaps less given Steve's strength. 

"I'm very trustworthy," James agrees, mocking; they're on the same page. 

They're just coming down the stairs, the security guards stepping aside, when Keller appears, looking flustered.

"There you are," he says, voice raised. "Jamie, what on earth? I told you to mingle, not—not—" His gaze takes them in, scrutinizing their disheveled clothing, and his face flushes an ugly red. "You little slut."

Steve tenses at James's side. For all that he'd fondly thought of James as a slut during their encounter, this seems much, much more hostile. Keller looks like he's about to have some kind of fit, red in the face and blustering as though he's been bumped from his flight—or perhaps had a favorite toy stolen. 

For his part, James looks blandly unconcerned. "Pat, darling," he murmurs, stepping forward. "There's no need for you to raise your voice. You made it abundantly clear that you didn’t require my services, so I kept myself entertained."

"By fucking someone else!" shouts Keller, ignoring James's request for discretion. Many of the other guests have turned to stare and Steve sighs unhappily. This is not the sort of publicity he wants for the gallery. 

"Listen," he says abruptly, drawing himself to his full height to loom over Keller. "I'm not sure what the problem is here, but this is my gallery and you'll keep your voice down or leave."

Keller at least has the good sense to look intimidated, deep-seated animal instinct reacting to Steve’s role as a predator. His fury, though, seems to get the better of him, because he hisses back, "The problem is that you just screwed my date. The _problem_ is that the $600 shoes I bought for him have come drying on them that I didn't put there."

"You're being dramatic," says James, clearly irritated. "We're not exclusive. If you wanted my attention all night, you should have kept me nearby."

"I let you drink my blood, you little whore—" Keller’s voice is rising again, so Steve turns back to his security and signals them quickly. 

They step forward, and before Keller can get a word in edgewise, they've clamped their hands around his upper arms. "Allow us to show you to your car, sir."

"I'll ruin you!" Keller yells, turning his head to snarl at James, though he doesn't resist being forcibly removed from the gallery. "You little shit! Expect my _detailed_ review on your profile for everyone to see how you treat your professional benefactors!" 

Keller subsides, then, hustled out quickly, and a hush falls over the lobby before the crowd begins to murmur again, voices rising up as the party continues. 

Steve turns his attention back to James only to find him drawn up stiffly, arms crossed over his chest, his pale face pinched with humiliation and anger. He has the look of a hunted animal, tense and cornered, and completely off balance. Nothing so far has rattled him, even Keller's initial outburst, but now— 

Now he's shaken. 

"Well," James says sharply, breaking the fragile moment. "I'll be going. Thank you for a lovely evening, Steve."

"Wait," says Steve, unwilling to let James just leave without any way of contacting him again. He pulls his card from his jacket, offering it to James. "My card. If you need anything."

James's eyes widen fractionally, lips pursed with obvious contempt. Steve's offended him. "I don't need a white knight," he says, voice withering. "Thank you." 

He moves to push past Steve on his way out, and Steve steps gently into his way, tucking the card into James's jacket pocket. Steve is careful not to touch him or make him feel any more threatened than he already does, before getting out of his way. "If you need anything," he repeats firmly. "Have a good night, Mr. Barnes."

James spares him one last sullen glare before turning on his heel and striding out, head held high. 

Steve didn't anticipate such an explosive outcome to their spontaneous tryst, but somehow, he's not surprised.

He hopes this isn't the last he'll see of James.


	2. Bucky

Bucky flags down a cab and calls the evening a wash. 

He's irritated, yes. Humiliated, sure. Offended? Completely. 

What began as a nice snack preceding a thoroughly mediocre evening was saved briefly by a solid fuck with a beautiful man before it all, inevitably, went to shit. He could have done without pathetic little Patrick losing his temper, and he _really_ did not need the beautiful man having the gall to assume _Bucky_ of all people required his help. Bucky hasn't needed anyone’s help since his untimely death. 

He’s under no illusions there. Bucky would have died _permanently_ if not for his family's desperate willingness to try anything to save his life as his lungs failed him. After all, he was their only son. They refused to let him go without a fight. 

Whether his parents got cheated or not, Bucky's never quite been sure. But whatever the consequences, he's not dead, and he's stronger and faster and heartier than he ever would have been in 1821. 

Which means he does not need some—some _white knight_ to save him just because he mistakenly thinks that Bucky getting publicly dumped by an overwrought manchild is indicative of anything other than Keller’s vicious pettiness. 

Bucky is _fine_. Bucky is not desperate. The inheritance his family left him was well invested, withstanding several market crashes over the last 200 years, and as a result, Bucky has more money and property than he knows what to do with. His preference for spending the money of other men instead of his own is just that—a preference, not a necessity. He isn't alone or defenseless, either. Bucky entertains at least five other suitors who take him out and treat him to nice things and dote on him like he deserves. Not to mention Alpine. The cat in question is curled up on the heated cat bed in the bay window. 

Honestly, the idea that Bucky could possibly be in danger because of _Patrick_ is laughable. Bucky _is_ the danger. 

With a huff, Bucky sheds his clothing and stomps into the shower, eager to wash the night away before he checks the damage Patrick's done to his immaculate profile. It's served him very well over the past five years and he's going to be pissed if that entitled little shit has managed to ruin it.

He allows himself a good, long sulk before he even looks. 

Bucky leaves the door to the bathroom open, in case Alpine wants to join him on the edge of the tub for a staring match, and strips out of his clothes. Despite the earlier meal, and a good bout of physical exertion, Bucky still feels chilled. He always feels chilled. It's yet another lingering facet of what life now entails, so as he perches on the edge of the big whirlpool bath, he turns the tap to practically scalding as he fills the tub. 

_Patrick_. What a baby. 

To think Bucky's been seeing him for six months, playing the part of perfect companion, and on a night full of endless possibilities to network and mingle and charm all of his bougie contacts, Bucky was unceremoniously relegated to _barfly_. Expected to wait idly by until he was needed. Bucky essentially sells his services as a glorified and very expensive accessory, yes, but he expects to actually be _present_ for all of it.

The idea of being discarded at will still rankles; he knows it was unprofessional to immediately plot revenge, scanning around for anyone to soothe his ruffled feathers while still actively on the payroll of another man, but Bucky doesn’t always successfully repress his impulsive tendencies.

Steve was a perfect target. Exactly his type, physically, and appropriately accommodating in precisely the way Bucky wanted him to be.

Dumping a big dollop of bubble bath into the water, Bucky scowls. Of course Steve ruined the mood. That cool, detached facade gave way to pity, while Bucky rigidly stood by and fought back abject humiliation. 

"Ugh," groans Bucky, tossing his head back. He pokes a finger into the water, sliding in and turning off the tap. 

A kittenish trill has him turning his head, watching Alpine leap up onto the edge of the tub, tail curling around her paws as she watches him soak. 

"Have you come to mock me too?" Bucky demands.

Alpine stretches her claws out, kneading the porcelain as if this might soften it up. Then she flicks her tail and peers into the water. 

"If you fall in, and then scratch me up in the inevitable ensuing chaos, I will be very upset with you," he explains reasonably. 

Alpine meows at him deliberately, his decision to take a bath clearly a personal affront to her. Bucky sighs and holds up one finger that is still relatively dry. Alpine rubs her face against it, first one cheek and then the other. That's apparently enough, though, because she hops down after that and exits, pressing her whole body against the doorframe so that he's aware that it belongs to her, just like everything else in the apartment. 

"Diva," he calls, but he can't fight the fond smile. He sinks down deeper into the steamy water and closes his eyes, relaxing by increments. Patrick Keller has no real power over his life and it's nothing but Bucky's pride that's been wounded. The truth is just that he's not used to being rebuffed or chastised for anything anymore. Once the last of his immediate family died, all blessedly of natural causes, there was really nothing holding Bucky back but his own morality, which has slowly been whittled down to one guiding principle: as long as they consent, it's fair game. 

It's why Bucky's always been up front in all of his arrangements. It's not as if Patrick didn't know he sees other people. If he assumed that meant on nights when they weren't in the same building, well, that's his mistake, not Bucky's.

Bucky doesn't belong to any of his clients. The tiny, petty part of him that isn't actually so tiny is still stung that he was so soundly dismissed, left to fend for himself until he was needed. 

_Fuck_ Patrick. He made a scene. Bucky would have gone straight back to his side and continued the evening at full charm if the fool hadn't gotten jealous. 

There's nothing worse than an entitled, possessive client. 

Bucky wallows until the water begins to cool, draining the tub and rinsing off the bubbles. He wraps himself up in a thick, fluffy robe, flopping onto his bed and reaching for his laptop. 

He's been carefully cultivating a spotless profile on the unfortunately named _babies4daddies_ website for five years, and the second he logs in, he sees that in just one ridiculous evening, Patrick _fucking_ Keller has gotten his account slapped with a black mark. Bucky’s profile isn't suspended, thankfully, but his 100% rating has been permanently destroyed, and Patrick's immature review sits at the very top of Bucky's testimonials page. 

Bucky snarls, tapping his fingernails against the plastic case of his laptop. 

It's not like he can even wipe this profile and start over again without a fresh invitation and a reference from a trusted user. Bucky _was_ a trusted user, but with his rating knocked below 100%, he's essentially on probation, and won't be able to vouch for anyone himself until he's back at 100% for _six months_. 

Snapping the laptop shut, Bucky tosses it to the end of the mattress and rolls onto his back. 

This is fine. He can handle this. Despite Patrick's threats, Bucky is hardly ruined. 

He has plenty of devoted clients that won't drop him over this. Right? He's built a reputation.

Fuck. Is it worth reaching out? Hoping that perhaps he can salvage his profile, Bucky picks up his phone and sends a message to Patrick. " _Patrick, was the review really necessary? Couldn't we just work something out? We both had our egos bruised. Let's just move on amicably_."

He waits several minutes and there's no reply, but ten minutes later, he receives an email notification from customersupport@babies4daddies.com.

> Dear James,
> 
> Your account has been reported for harassment. Following review of the attached evidence, your account will be issued an official warning. This is strike one. babies4daddies has a strictly enforced user agreement. Please refresh your understanding of the agreement prior to logging back in. Your account will be marked with a strike icon for 12 months.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  The babies4daddies Mod Team

Bucky stares. With trembling fingers, he opens the attachment. It's a copy of his text message to Patrick, along with the highlighted clause in the user agreement he's violated. Once an arrangement has been terminated, personal contact is strictly forbidden and considered harassment.

A deep well of fury and shame bubbles up inside Bucky at being labeled a harasser over one message to a man that brazenly called Bucky a _slut_ and a _whore_ in front of a huge crowd of strangers. The user agreement policy is a good one, Bucky's availed himself of it when former clients refused to accept that he was no longer interested. But this is—this is different. Bucky asked Patrick to talk it over; he wasn't harassing him. If Patrick hadn't replied, Bucky wouldn't have pressed the issue. 

God, he doesn't even want his profile up anymore. He doesn't want people to see that strike and associate him with a predator. He has enough issues establishing contracts as a vampire, even if he's always been diligent on that issue, ensuring clients understand what they’re getting into if they agree to allow Bucky to feed. 

Practically burning up with impotent rage and humiliation, Bucky hits his limit. With an impulsive flick of his fingers, his profile is gone. 

He doesn’t need it, anyway. Bucky has a small pool of devoted long-term clients. He'll just rely on the contacts he already has. Besides, this arrangement has always been optional. There are plenty of other ways for him to get sex, blood, and money.

Bucky is mostly seething over Patrick successfully causing harm to his reputation; at no point did he actually anticipate feeling enough embarrassment that he'd be forced to delete his profile. 

Ugh. Horrible. Bucky does _not_ want to imagine Patrick's reaction to discovering he's wiped his account. In all his many years, Bucky has never had reason to dread running into anyone in the city. Now, though, he's wondering how he'd feel if he ran into _Patrick_ , and he sinks down into the pillows at the head of his bed to sulk. 

"Where are you when I need comfort?" yells Bucky. Alpine doesn't appear, Bucky huffs noisily, grabbing his phone.

Already, there are three text messages from current clients concerned over his whereabouts online, which is a good, healthy boost to his wounded ego. He replies to each one promptly, determining they're eager to continue their current arrangement, and willing to sign new standard contracts issued by Bucky himself, site or no site. 

There's a thousand dollar tip in his PayPal, from an admirer expressing sympathy and encouraging him to keep in touch, which soothes him further. 

He's fine. Everything is fine. Bucky’s an immortal being that is fully in control of his life. He doesn't need any of these suitors, but he can _choose_ to entertain the ones that still see his value as a companion. This is just a momentary setback, and a perfect time to clean house. 

Bucky deletes Patrick's message history and blocks his number, then scrolls through the rest of his contacts for anyone that he met through Patrick, deleting and blocking their information too. Once he's done weeding people out, he feels a lot better. There. Trusted clients only. Nobody that's been hiring him for less than a year, like Patrick. A good, solid network of men who will treat him with nothing but the utmost respect. 

Rolling over onto his belly, Bucky lets the tension seep out of him. Contracts can be sent out tomorrow. He refuses to let this mishap bleed any further into his night. 

Bucky gets up, washing his hands of this whole situation. Now that he's recovered his calm, he returns to the bathroom to wash and moisturize his face. He's not going to sleep, but he's still grumpy and could use some pampering, considering how severely his night went off the rails. It’s the perfect opportunity to use a face mask. 

He's scooping his discarded clothes up off the bathroom floor before they wrinkle when he remembers the card. 

Scowling again, he pulls the minimalist, cream-colored business card from the front pocket of his shirt. 

"Steven G. Rogers," he murmurs, mouth twisting.

He's about to throw it out, maybe even light it on fire, when a thought occurs to him. Perhaps running into Patrick again wouldn't be so bad if he was on the arm of the man that 'stole' him from Patrick in the first place. Not that anyone can _steal_ him at all, because he's not a possession, but clearly Patrick thought of him as one. It may also go a long way to discredit Patrick's complaints if he looks more like a jealous ex than a wronged client. 

Of course, that would require contacting Steve and allowing him the thrill of having something Bucky wants, playing the hero. 

Narrowing his eyes at the card, he walks over to the bathroom mirror and tucks it against the edge for safekeeping. He'll think on it, wait for a day or two. There's no rush, especially now that he's sorted out his current client list. He might not even have time for Steven G. Rogers.

Leaving the card in the bathroom, Bucky puts the clothes in the hamper and takes one of the fancy face masks Daniel brought him from Korea. He puts it on, turns on Netflix, and shuts out the world.

He takes it easy for the rest of the night. When the sun starts to creep over the horizon, Bucky closes the blinds and curtains, feeds Alpine, and takes himself to bed. 

With three dates already lined up for the week, he's still feeling a little fragile, but confident that one petty human isn't going to topple his meticulous house of cards. His loyal clients are perfectly happy to sign his new contract, which is functionally identical to the old one, but without any affiliation to the _site which will no longer be named_ , and he settles back into wine tastings, expensive dinner dates, museum and gallery visits, and personal shopping trips.

When he vindictively imagined himself running into Patrick, he assumed it would be in a carefully controlled setting, where he could effortlessly show off that James Buchanan Barnes does not have a reputation that can be ruined by a pathetic review on an inferior website. 

Bucky did _not_ predict he'd be wearing sunglasses and a ragged hoodie to ward off the weakening rays of light as the sun dipped below the horizon, clutching his cat carrier while he takes Alpine to the vet for a checkup. 

He's wearing sweatpants, for god's sake. His hair hasn't been _washed_.

It's a screaming nightmare. The smirk that curves Patrick's lips when he recognizes Bucky is the worst thing that's happened to him in four decades.

"Jamie," says Patrick, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "What have we here?"

 _All the saints and demons preserve him_ — 

Bucky thought he was free of this particular brand of man, the vindictive delight that only humans are truly capable of. Only beings whose lives snuff out in a handful of decades could possibly need to elevate themselves by hurting others. 

"We have nothing," says Bucky, drawing himself up. "I believe it was you who made it clear there was no need for further conversation."

"Nothing," repeats Patrick, with a harsh laugh. "Yes, I guess you are."

"Don't be bitter just because you weren't worth waiting thirty minutes for, Patrick." He's trying to keep his head, he really is. He doesn't want to be baited. He wants to go home.

Patrick's jaw works, eyes narrowing. "And how is Mr. Rogers? Oh, that's right, he doesn't even know your name, does he? A worthless backroom fuck for a worthless whore."

Bucky can only blame the pure disgust that fills him, the overly-human need for revenge, for what comes out of his mouth next. "He's doing well, actually. Should I tell him you said hello? I'm seeing him tomorrow. I know you were hoping to make some important connections in the art community here. What did you say that night? You'll have to remind me, I know I'm just a worthless whore, but I think it was something about how every piece worth having goes through that gallery?"

"There are other galleries, other dealers," spits Patrick. "You can't intimidate me. You're probably lying—"

"Am I? Are you sure? And are you sure all those other galleries and dealers would want to be on his bad side?" Bucky adjusts his hold on Alpine's carrier and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Have a lovely day, Patrick."

He brushes past the sputtering man before he can come up with another lovely retort. Internally, Bucky is cursing himself and Patrick straight to hell.

He'll have to contact Steve now. There's no way around it. The only other option available to him would be fleeing to Greenland and going into hiding if Patrick was ever able to confirm that Bucky is bluffing.

It's been a long time since Bucky tangled himself up in a dramatic web of bullshit. 

Part of him wonders if it's even worth it. Why lower himself to human squabbles? He could pick a new city, start fresh... 

As he greets the receptionist and checks Alpine in for her appointment, though, a little flare of anger flickers up inside him. Why should he feel threatened? He's a _predator_. This is his home, his neighborhood, his scene! His vet. He shouldn't have to walk around here, anxious about running into one man that humiliated him. He shouldn't have to entertain thoughts of _leaving_. 

Steve is the one who gave him his card. Steve wants to see him again, and Steve is the reason any of this happened. So Bucky will call Steve, explain the situation, and make an arrangement. He doubts Steve will turn him down. He did indicate that Bucky could call him if he needed anything. And if what Bucky needs is help in getting Patrick blacklisted in the art scene as revenge, well... 

That's probably extreme. He just wants Patrick to see him on Steve's arm, one more time, and to do that, he'll need Steve to play along. 

Besides, Bucky thinks, sitting down in the waiting room and pulling out his phone to waste time. Steve is gorgeous and well-connected. He's....worth knowing, despite Bucky resentment. Patrick utterly destroyed any possible afterglow, following a truly spectacular fuck. Hooking up with Steve again would go a long way in driving Patrick out of his life completely. 

When he gets home later that evening, Bucky spends a good hour coaxing Alpine out of the cat carrier and trying to bribe himself back into her good graces with treats and tuna. 

It isn't until late that he remembers the little business card tucked into his mirror. Sitting down at the vanity, he plucks it up, grabbing his phone and saving Steve's number. 

Call, or text? Bucky taps the card against his lips. It's almost ten...

Sighing, he opens a fresh text conversation. 

**Bucky** : It's James Barnes. You free?

Bucky stares at his phone for a moment, then makes a disgusted noise and starts to put it down when it vibrates in his hand. STEVE ROGERS flashes across the screen. Oh fuck.

Composing himself, Bucky unlocks the phone and answers, modulating his tone to be low, a little breathless. "Hello?" 

"James? This is Steve Rogers," he says, unnecessary but appreciated. It gives Bucky a moment to figure out how he wants to play this. Steve sounds good, voice deep and steady, losing none of its gravitas over the phone.

"Steve, yes, hi, thank you for calling me," he begins.

A huff. "I'll be honest, I was shocked to get the text. Wanted to hear your voice, be sure it was actually you."

"You remember my voice after only a short hour together? I'm flattered." He keeps it light, teasing. He doesn't want Steve to know how much he wants this. He can walk away. Bucky doesn't need Steve Rogers.

"Mmm, well, let's just say I'm good with voices, but our time together was especially unforgettable." Ah, there it is, a hint of reciprocal playfulness, flirting. 

Bucky chuckles, throaty and warm. "Yes, both the during and the end," he says, wry about it. No point avoiding the elephant in the room. "I wanted to express my regret for how it all went. See if perhaps you'd be interested in sitting down for dinner, a conversation."

After a brief pause, Steve smoothly takes over. "I'm free tomorrow night. Can I send a car for you? I can get us reservations. Say...nine?"

Bucky is caught off guard. He's used to new clients suggesting earlier starts, forcing Bucky to demur and push back later. In the summer, it gets especially difficult with the sun taking so long to set. "Nine would be perfect. I'll text you the address."

"I look forward to it."

"See you tomorrow night, Steve," murmurs Bucky. 

"Good night, James."

Bucky ends the call, staring at himself in the mirror. 

Good. Perfect. A date with Steve Rogers. Bucky will bring a copy of the contract, they'll work out an arrangement that satisfies them both, likely temporary, and then Bucky will get his revenge on Patrick with Steve's help. He texts his address to Steve, and goes into his closet to choose an outfit for tomorrow night. 

He's got nothing else to do tonight, after all. 

Bucky ends up laying out three possible outfits. There's no telling what he'll feel like wearing tomorrow until he's actually getting ready for the date. It puts him at ease, planning everything out from his shoes to his jewelry.

When Alpine eventually forgives him for dragging her to the vet, he spends the rest of his night playing with her and watching romantic comedies, loudly critiquing the actions of the protagonists while Alpine gazes at him with judgement in her yellow eyes. 

The next day, he wakes up just after sunset, and finds that Steve has texted him a dress code which eliminates one of his possible outfits. 

It makes it easier to choose, ultimately, and Bucky spends three full hours getting ready. It's a ritual, at this point. Aside from sex and receiving gifts, getting ready for a date is definitely his favorite part. He takes a shower, before moisturizing his skin from head to toe, and then drying and styling his hair. He doesn't know where they're going to end up tonight, but he makes the decision to put on a lacy pair of pink panties under his tailored black pants. The silk shirt he chooses is deep blue, and he finishes it off with a black blazer and no tie. 

A few more touches here and there, a slim belt, a pocket square, the first three buttons of his shirt undone... Bucky centers himself as he examines his completed look in the mirror.

There’s a pretty flush in his cheeks that creeps down his neck from an earlier meal, which, along with the soft give of his chin adds an air of innocent vulnerability to his face, a look he has perfected over the years. Tempting enough, hopefully, to make Steve more agreeable to his requests.

He picks up the contract, tucking it into a leather portfolio and then heading downstairs to the waiting town car. The drive to the restaurant is tolerable, passing in comfortable silence as Bucky flips through the contract one last time, making sure all the pages that require signature or initial have been properly flagged. It's the same as the last three times he checked. 

Bucky is not nervous. He's never nervous, but he does want this to go smoothly. He wants the added security, making him untouchable where Patrick is concerned. 

The car pulls to a stop and the door is opened, a hand extended toward him. Bucky accepts it, stepping out onto the sidewalk and finding Steve. "Oh, hello," he greets, caught off-guard. He was expecting the valet or the driver. But Steve is waiting for him.

"Hello," returns Steve, those beautiful blue eyes crinkling at the edges. He looks delectable, and he's standing close enough that Bucky can feel the heat radiating off his body. God, he's so warm. 

It's a good thing Bucky decided to eat prior to this. Not that he's ever lost control of himself, but something about Steve makes his teeth itch. "Thank you for inviting me."

"My pleasure." Steve turns toward the restaurant, smoothly tucking Bucky's hand into the crook of his arm as he guides them inside. 

The hostess is waiting, welcoming them with a smile and ushering them straight to a private room with a beautifully set table. It tells Bucky several things at once: 1) Steve has money and is very comfortable spending it in support of his own pleasure, 2) Steve is serious about wanting Bucky, and, 3) Steve has done this before.

It goes a long way towards putting Bucky at ease. 

They seem to be on the same page, and if Steve is putting effort into this very strong first date impression, then he's likely to oblige the intricacies of Bucky's request. Maybe it's ultimately a good thing, that he was there to witness how Patrick treated him in public. He's making sure that Bucky knows Steve won't devalue him like that. It could all be a fabulous ruse, but that's what the contract is for. 

In the moment Bucky pauses to approvingly take in the private dining room, Steve steps forward to pull out Bucky's chair for him, and the last of Bucky's nebulous doubts evaporate. He gives Steve a coy grin over his shoulder and seats himself primly, taking the beautifully-folded napkin and laying it out over his lap. "You really do have excellent taste, I have to admit."

Steve seats himself across from Bucky, lowering his lashes in what would be a demur gesture if he didn't radiate confidence with his entire body. "Did it hurt to say that out loud?"

Bucky laughs, genuinely delighted. "Sometimes when you find out someone is embedded deeply in the arts and culture scene, you kind of want to see them fail a little bit. But this is a beautiful restaurant, and you've made an excellent choice. I feel very seen."

Steve grins, and it's a much smaller, more genuine expression. "It's a personal favorite. I'm glad you like it. Wine?"

Out of nowhere, the sommelier appears, explaining the options, then presenting the bottles to Steve first, and then to Bucky. They both select the white, and when the sommelier has poured for them and excused herself, Steve raises his glass in a toast. "To second chances," he says carefully. 

Bucky huffs and grins despite himself, mirroring Steve's gesture and clinking their glasses together. "Cheers." He takes a slow sip, finding the wine mellow and sweet, not too dry. "Hmm. That's nice."

Steve is watching him, swirling his own glass. "I’d never actually seen a vampire drink alcohol before. But you were drinking the other night, too."

"How many vampires have you seen?" counters Bucky, taking another slow sip. 

Steve cocks his head. "Three. Four, now, including you."

Bucky's surprised. Most humans don't knowingly encounter one vampire, let alone four. "That's impressive." He frowns. God, he hopes he hasn't somehow gotten involved with a fanatic. "Humans aren't usually so involved in vampire affairs."

"That’s true,” Steve says easily. “And I’m sure, if I were human, that might be true for me, as well. But I'm a werewolf, so a few more opportunities have presented themselves to me over the years." Steve delivers this information with the smallest hint of a smirk, as if to let Bucky know how pleased he is with himself.

Bucky can't help the way his eyes widen, but otherwise he feels he does a fair job hiding his shock. A werewolf. Fuck. How could Bucky be so stupid, that he didn't notice? Now, the way Steve radiates heat, his powerful presence, the ease with which he accepted that Bucky is a vampire— 

"You knew," he says. "You knew from the beginning that I was a vampire, even before Patrick spilled the beans."

Steve shrugs dismissively. "Of course, especially once we were alone." He taps his ear. "The lack of heartbeat gives you away, but your scent was the first clue. No sweat."

Bucky huffs, annoyed. He's never associated with a werewolf before. Sure, he's been aware of them, when their status is well-known, whispered about in the right groups. Steve, however, has somehow avoided being talked about. "How old are you?" 

Steve tips his head back and laughs. "I’m pretty sure that's rude to ask."

"It's rude to know I'm a vampire and not tell me you're a werewolf," counters Bucky. This evening is being derailed and he's officially annoyed. He takes a sip of his wine and tries not to pout. 

"You weren't volunteering that information about you, so I didn't think it would matter. It wasn't as thought I anticipated ever seeing you again." Steve's smile softens and he tips his head to the side. "Come on, James. Don't be sore at me. I told you as soon as it was relevant. And I'm just about to see my 428th birthday, if you must know. What about you? I can see you must have been turned very young. Has it been ten, twenty years since?"

Every scrap of borrowed blood inside Bucky blazes to the surface in a truly horrendous flush. He really, truly thought he was free of unexpected embarrassment this week. What on earth has he done to deserve all these mortifying interactions?

"Excuse me?" he demands sharply. He has half a mind to stand up and just leave. 

Steve doesn't react to his obvious annoyance aside from calmly raising his eyebrows. "No?"

"I'm not a fledgling," Bucky hisses, folding his hand into a fist on the table and digging his fingernails into his palm. "I'm half your age, Steve. My 220th birthday passed earlier this year. Was this evening just an elaborate effort to humiliate me? If so, I'd like to know now, so I can save my evening."

The mild look on Steve's face shifts to one of genuine remorse. "No, of course not," he says evenly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed."

"You took that advantage over me easily enough," Bucky says haughtily. "Having something to offer me doesn't mean I'm at your mercy, just because one silly human drew attention to me in a way I couldn’t control. I'm perfectly capable of operating independently. I don't need anything from you, like I said."

"I know that," says Steve. "I didn't sense weakness, James. Patrick Keller and his childish display of jealousy didn't figure into my attention. There was chemistry. I'm simply pursuing it."

Bucky scowls at him, still clinging to his hurt feelings. "A fledgling," he spits, eyes narrowed. "For someone with such enhanced senses, your observational skills are poor."

Steve inclines his head, taking the criticism. "Like I said, I haven't met many vampires in my life. Your—passion and zest for pleasure spoke to someone that hasn't been ground down by the passing decades."

Oh, charming. It's almost enough to mollify him. "Cute," he mutters, pursing his lips. "You can't flatter me into forgiveness."

Steve looks like he's holding back a smile, the smug bastard. "What can I do to earn such a favor?"

Bucky catches the barest hint of a lilt in the question, something tickling at his memory. "Hmmm," he hedges. "Well, I suppose you could tell me more about you, since you know so much about me. You're not from here, are you?"

Steve shakes his head. "No, not originally. I came over with several families from my pack in 1846. There were many humans among us and it became increasingly difficult in those times to keep them well and fed."

Ah, now Bucky recognizes the lyrical quality of the accent that seems to emerge only when Steve is especially amused. "You're Irish."

"You caught me," teases Steve with a wink. "Good ear, people usually only spot it if I've had enough wolfsbane-laced whisky to actually be tipsy."

"I remember when there was an influx of Irish immigrants during the famine, though I was somewhat preoccupied at the time, being an _actual fledgling_ then."

"Hold a grudge, do you?" asks Steve. "Come on, James, let me make it up to you."

Bucky considers this for a moment, deciding now might be the best time to introduce the contract. "Fine, then, I'll think about what you can do. In the meantime, I brought something along to help us discuss what we want out of this." He gestures between them and then picks up the portfolio, extending it to Steve. "For your consideration."

Steve doesn't exactly look confused, but this evidently wasn't something he was expecting. Still, he accepts the portfolio, setting it down over his plate and opening it up. After a moment, he raises his eyes to Bucky's. "A contract?"

"I don't do business without one," says Bucky. "Previously, clients hired me through a website, but—" He presses his lips together, residual anger flaring up as he thinks of his burned profile, "I've decided not to rely on a third party mediator anymore."

"Clients," echoes Steve, nodding slowly. 

"You could just read it," Bucky says flatly. "All my services are listed, alongside my expectations for compensation."

Steve glances back down again, skimming the first page, and he flicks through a few more before letting it fall closed again. "I think I get the idea."

"Well?" demands Bucky. He narrows his gaze, discomfort filtering back in. Steve continually throws him off balance, and he hates it. The thought pops into his head abruptly, accompanied by an incredulous laugh. "Wait," he says. "You didn't think I was pursuing a relationship, did you?"

"You are," says Steve, tapping the portfolio. "A professional, working relationship."

"That's not what I mean. You thought I just wanted to go out with you," says Bucky. 

"I didn't think anything," retorts Steve. "I made one false assumption about your age. The rest, I was waiting to find out." He picks up the contract and hands it back. "I won't be signing this, though."

"Why not?" snaps Bucky. Honestly, Steve is turning out to be more trouble than he's worth. 

"Well, for starters, I don't sign contracts with other supernatural creatures, not without thorough, extensive review from more parties than I'd like to get involved in our agreement." Steve says this as if it's obvious, as if it's something Bucky should have expected, now that he knows Steve is a werewolf.

Bucky scowls. He doesn't want to ask why that is, because he's afraid of what it might give away. Bucky hasn't exactly been an active member of the local (or global, for that matter) community. He doesn't associate with any other vampires and he definitely doesn't know any other supernatural beings on a level that would require a contract or even the discussion of one. "Well, I didn't exactly know you were a werewolf ahead of time, now, did I?" 

"Of course," agrees Steve. "My apologies. The other issue with your contract pertains to blanket access to my blood. I won’t sign that clause. I think you probably get as much as you need from your other benefactors, and if I ever do want you to feed from me, we'll discuss it then. Otherwise, consider that off-limits."

"I see." Bucky is so off-balance, he doesn't even know where to go from here. He’s defensive and he feels cornered, and he needs to regain control of this conversation. "Then what do you suggest, exactly? What did you want when you invited me to dinner?"

"I wanted—want—to fuck you again. Preferably more than once. I want to get to know you. I enjoy the company of pretty men who like to be spoiled, in want of a firm hand and a specific kind of attention. I like brats, James. That's what I want from you."

This, Bucky can understand, relaxing at the familiarity. "You like playing Daddy, then." He laughs, but not meanly. "Think you can get me to behave?"

"Maybe." Steve shrugs. "If you let me."

Bucky taps his manicured nails against the table. "I wouldn't stop seeing my other clients."

"And I wouldn't expect you to, especially since I'm counting on them to keep your other appetites satisfied." Steve's smile is tight. "But I'm more than capable of taking care of you in any other way you might need or want. Money, gifts, expensive dinners, high profile dates...a hard cock in your greedy hole."

 _Damn_ Steve Rogers and that warm, deep voice. Despite Bucky's ongoing frustration with him—maybe even because of it—he finds himself shifting in his seat, cock heavy in his tight pants. "I want you to take a copy of my hard limits, my likes and dislikes, and at least provide me with verbal agreement that you won't go against any. I want confirmation there'll be a safeword."

"Of course. I'm not interested in doing anything with you that you don't enthusiastically want, James."

The very stubborn, entitled part of Bucky wants to flat out refuse. He's never had to compromise before, but he's also only ever done this with humans. His naivety here has skewed his understanding of where they stand. Bucky wanted higher ground, but Steve has evened the playing field. Despite his irritation, he can't begrudge him that. 

"One more thing," says Bucky, distinctly petulant.

Steve's answering grin is wide and genuine. "I'll do my best to accommodate you."

"I want to humiliate Patrick Keller," says Bucky. "I want to damage his reputation in your community the same way he did to mine. I have no interest in dragging this out. One public scene should do it."

Inexplicably, Steve's face softens. Bucky was expecting some scorn, or eye rolling, but Steve has fixed him with the same expression he wore when Patrick cursed him out at the gallery. This is the white knight, come to Bucky's rescue. "I think a bit of revenge can be arranged," says Steve. "Sounds fun."

"You don't think it's petty?" Bucky pushes. 

"Of course it's petty. So was embarrassing you in front of a crowd of strangers rather than talking through it like professional adults," says Steve, shrugging. "It's not like you want me to kill him." He pauses, his mouth curving up into a smirk, like he's inviting Bucky in on a joke specific to them, as creatures of the night. "Do you?"

"No," says Bucky, sighing. "He's just an idiot. I don't kill people."

"I didn't think so," says Steve. "We seem to be on the same page, then, once you give me your limits."

"How often can I see you?" Bucky asks. "Should we pick a day, or—"

"Or we can arrange dates more organically," Steve interrupts. "When it's convenient for us both."

Bucky grits his teeth, letting his instinctual annoyance fade. "Fine," he says breezily, trying not to show how easily Steve gets under his skin. He wishes there was a menu for him to pick up, but there's nothing on the table. "Well? Are you going to order me dinner? I don't put out for just white wine."

Steve smiles beatifically at him. "Oh, I already ordered. First course will be here shortly."

As if on command, a server appears with an enormous tray of oysters. 

"Hope you like seafood," says Steve, with a wink.

Bucky loves oysters. He fixes Steve with a withering glare and plucks up a shell out of the ice. “This better not be some crass dig about _aphrodisiacs_. I’m easy, but I’m not a fool.”

“This jalapeno mignonette is lovely,” says Steve, ignoring him. “Eat up.”

Oh, he’s awful. Bucky doesn’t like Steve Rogers one fucking bit, not at _all_ , but he’s not about to make a fuss before he has the opportunity to eat his weight in oysters. 

If anything, at least the food is excellent.


	3. Steve

One of the few quirks Steve managed to pick up in his handful of encounters with vampires is that they love real food, even if they have absolutely no practical use for it. 

To a vampire, all food is like ice cream. Delicious, something they might get a craving for, but ultimately provides little sustenance for survival, and too much will give them a stomach ache—which James definitely puts to the test over the course of their meal. 

Steve is learning that James is something of a hedonist, pursuing pleasure as his most pressing priority. This theory is soundly reinforced when, despite his theatrical scowls and contrary declarations all evening, James agrees to join Steve in his home after the conclusion of dinner. As soon as the door shuts behind them in the back of Steve's town car, James licks his lips, gives Steve a swift once over with hungry eyes, and then climbs onto Steve's lap, straddling his thighs on the firm leather seat. 

"Well,” says James, bracing his hands on Steve’s shoulders. “That was a _passable_ date. Thank you for dinner."

Steve tips his head back against the rest, allowing James the comfort of hovering over him. He can see the way James's eyes flick to his bare throat, but he's a good boy. Steve smiles. "You're welcome."

There's mischief in his eyes, almost glittering as his pupils widen in the dark interior, tinted windows blocking out the streetlights. "Are you going to keep taking care of me when we get home?"

"Sure I am, baby," Steve says easily, hands sliding over James's hips, squeezing and kneading. "Anything you need to add to the list you shared with me? Or is there anything you want me to avoid tonight even if it isn't on your list?"

James hums, apparently taking a moment to actually consider Steve’s question seriously as he combs nimble fingers through Steve's hair. "No," he says eventually. "Whatever you want to do with me is fine. Oh—" There’s a brief moment of hesitation, and James goes quiet, almost shy, which Steve has already observed to be unusual for him. 

"Yes?" prompts Steve, curious.

"Well," begins James. "It's just, as you read in the contract, I let my partners forgo protection because I can't catch or transmit anything. And, you know, that just makes me wonder... if werewolves really are as territorial as one might assume."

Steve is almost surprised by the meandering answer. James has gone still in his arms, tension strung through him—he's waiting to be mocked or rebuffed, maybe, or he's embarrassed to have to explicitly ask for something he's perceived as filthy or crass. 

"You want me to come inside you?" Steve asks in a low, rumbling voice. He lets the resonance build in his throat and chest, holding James tightly in his arms. "Is that what you want from me, James?"

James’s eyes widen, a shudder rippling through him. He squirms in Steve's lap, clutching reflexively at his shoulders. " _Yes_ , you big brute."

"For the record," murmurs Steve, cupping James's chin in his hand and drawing him down for a biting kiss. "I can't catch or transmit anything, either. Everything burns out of my body very quickly. So, yes, I'll stuff your pretty little asshole full of come, if that's how you want to be _marked_."

James lets out an involuntary groan, lips parting against Steve's mouth. He tastes like caramelized sugar, the dessert course still on his lips and tongue. "There's also—no need to be gentle with me," he says, pulling back to prop himself up over Steve. "I'm much stronger than I look."

Steve takes him at his word when, fifteen minutes later, he carries James through the door of his bedroom, James's long legs clamped like iron around his hips, and slams him into the opposite wall.

Obviously, Steve’s never fucked a vampire prior to James. He was, once, a human, and he’s still very human-shaped, so there’s that guiding principle, at least, but when it comes to exactly what vampires can handle, Steve knows what he assumes are the basics—avoid wooden implements and objects near the heart, and avoid silver, because one thing all supernatural creatures seem to have in common is an aversion to silver. There’s a reason most of the silver mines in the world are now owned by said creatures. Better them than humans, whose memories are short, and seem to grow jumpy every few hundred years.

James bites at his mouth, not hard enough to break the skin, but demanding enough to draw Steve's attention back to the squirming, horny vampire in his grip. "Fuck," he pants as Steve explores his throat, sucking at the soft skin, curious about what marks he might be able to leave. "I've n-never fucked anyone as strong as me, or...god, you might even be stronger."

The sentiment is a reflection of Steve's own thoughts on the matter. While fucking a vampire is an obvious novelty, Steve hasn't been with another werewolf in quite some time either. Very few people capture Steve's interest long term, and since Peggy, he's been loath to form a more permanent attachment. Werewolves are pack creatures, devoted to family and friends, and they don't tend to spend a lot of time jumping from partner to partner. James wasn't wrong about the whole _territorial_ jab. 

So, Steve's been something of an anomaly over the past two hundred years, seeking out fleeting connections, and while humans are content enough with the thrill of a one night stand, he _also_ has to be extremely aware of his own strength. With James, he lets the full force of his strength come to bear as he pins him in place and grinds their trapped cocks together.

"Oh—oh, fuck, Steve—" James grabs at Steve, arching against him. 

Steve finally lifts his mouth away from James's skin. He’s overcome with desire, desperate to hear what James has only said mockingly. _Needs_ to hear it. "What was that?" he growls. "Who are you talking to?"

James is quick, at least, seems to get what Steve wants immediately, but he's a brat, through and through. He grins at him sharply and cocks his head curiously. “It’s Steve, isn’t it? Steven? Did you want me to call you something else? Mr. Rogers? Don’t tell me you’re the kind of top that wants me to call you _sir_. "

Steve narrows his eyes and pushes away from the wall, carrying James toward the bedroom, dumping him into Steve’s rumpled bed without warning. "Trust me, baby boy, I have _no_ problem dragging it out of you. You've been begging for a spanking since I met you."

James has the advantage of supernatural grace, seemingly unbothered by the drop. He settles himself easily, propped back on his elbows with his legs spread. The lighting in here is low, and as James looks up at him, his widened eyes catch the glare from the lamp like a cat's, briefly reflecting the glow. 

He's just like a cat, really, thinks Steve. Highly independent, yet needy at the same time, while prone to theatrical shows of emotion. 

"I'd like to see you try," challenges James, tipping his chin back defiantly. "I'm not entirely convinced you've earned what you want to hear."

Steve sets a knee on the edge of the bed to shrug out of his jacket and unbutton his shirt, carelessly discarding each article of clothing onto the floor. "Fair enough," he says evenly. "You should give me your safeword, then."

"Silver," says James. "Too on the nose?"

Steve huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "No. Silver it is." He undoes his fly, and those large, pale eyes drop to watch Steve's hands with interest as he pushes his pants and underwear down his hips. 

Enraptured as he is by watching Steve undress, the second he's naked and turning his attention back to James's lazy sprawl, James explodes into motion, rolling over onto his belly as though he's about to escape. Steve doesn't indulge him, darting across the bed to catch him around the waist and swing him back onto the mattress, shoving him down over Steve's lap on his hands and knees. 

"Well," says James, with the affectation of breathlessness. "You _are_ a brute, aren't you." He fights to break free only as long as Steve holds him in place, testing his strength, and then abruptly gives up, going limp. 

"You're a good match," Steve rumbles, palming James's back. "But I'm a little bit stronger than you." He slides his hand down over James's clothed backside, resting over the plush curve of his ass. "And I think I'd like to _earn_ your respect."

"You’re very welcome to try," says James frankly. "And I _don't_ beg."

"If you say so," agrees Steve, unconcerned about James's declaration. It's obvious he's just trying to rile Steve up more, but Steve doesn't need to be riled, and he's not angry anyway. He’s happy to play whatever games James wants to play, but he is determined to win. 

James opens his mouth, no doubt ready to deliver another witty comeback, but Steve chooses that moment to lift his hand and bring it down with an impressive _smack_. It startles a very undignified squeal from James that has Steve rumbling with amusement. "Yes? You were saying?"

Steve gets a glare in response and another round of movement, James wriggling around again, hissing like the cat Steve imagined before. "Oh! You—you _ass_ , you—"

It’s a very charming show, but Steve just holds onto him easily and lets his hand fall into a scorching rhythm, all up and down James's thighs and ass, coming very close to using his full strength. If James were human, he'd be black and blue. As it is, he cries out with every strike, thrashing and jerking against Steve, but he says neither word that will grant him relief. Around the 15th strike, Steve pauses long enough to realize that James is fully hard against his thigh and every one of his squirms is purposeful, rutting against Steve. 

Steve laughs and shoves him off his lap, rolling James over onto his back. "Greedy brat," he sighs fondly, moving to pin him down while he starts to rip his clothes from him. 

"Hey! What are you—that is _expensive_ ," James complains. 

"I'll buy you a new outfit," dismisses Steve, holding James by the throat while he pulls the last of his now tattered shirt and pants away from his pretty body, revealing… Steve groans. He looks back up and catches James's gaze before he lifts his hand and brings it down in a sharp slap against his pink-lace-covered prick. "These for me, baby?"

* * *

* * *

James _shrieks_ , his hips snapping up involuntarily. He wraps both hands around Steve's wrist where he's holding him down to the bed by his neck, well-manicured fingernails digging in. "They're for _me_ ," he says defensively, and Steve blocks his attempt to kick up at him by straddling his knees and pinning him down. "You enormous fucking _monster_."

"Oh," croons Steve, grinding the heel of his free hand against the wet patch staining the lace of James's dainty panties. "Yeah, keep talking dirty to me, James."

James grunts, directly a glassy-eyed scowl at Steve. " _Don't_ rip these. I mean it."

Steve hums, trailing a finger delicately down the line of James's cock, tucked up snug in the lace. Releasing his throat, he slides down James's body, dragging his nose from dusky nipples to the dark curl of pubic hair peeking out from the waistband, scenting his arousal and breathing him in. 

"O-oh, fuck," says James, sounding legitimately startled by Steve sticking his face between his legs. He grabs a handful of Steve's hair, tugging sharply. "Don't _smell_ me!" he cries, voice pitched a little higher. "If the next thing you do is snuffle at my asshole like a dog—"

"Don't be so dramatic," rumbles Steve, pressing his lips over the head of James's cock. It shuts him up immediately, his grip on Steve's hair loosening. 

"If I still needed to breathe," James says tremulously, "Drama would be like oxygen."

Steve huffs hot air over the wet fabric and James shivers, subsiding a little. "I can tell." He pushes one hand under James's knee, pushing his left leg up and out. He's no warmer anywhere between his legs, like a human would be, and his skin is uniformly warm and a little dry all over. When he slides his tongue over the lace, pressing firmly at the tight furl of his asshole, James whimpers, tucking his leg over Steve's shoulder.

Steve makes a self-satisfied sound, continuing on his quest to drive a _pretty please_ from James. He licks at him until the fabric is sloppy with it, until it sticks to James's skin, and then he seals his lips and sucks. James whines sharply. 

"Fuck, just—just _fuck me_ already," he snarls, sounding desperate. 

Steve hums, pushing the lace to the side so he can press his tongue into James's twitching hole. He makes an unintelligible sound, his hips jerking, and then he's tugging on Steve's hair. "Oh, oh— _Daddy, please_!"

Steve rears up as soon as the words are out of his mouth, pulling the lacy panties down over his hips and free of his long legs before pushing them wide. "There's my sweet boy," he croons, rubbing a finger against James's spit-slick hole. He presses just inside, reaching out to grab the lube from the bedside table. "You see? I knew you could be good if you just tried."

"You're _nasty_ ," James whines plaintively, sprawled out on his elbows, expression drained of all pretense now. There's naked longing in his eyes. 

Steve removes his finger, ignoring James's vocal complaints as he squeezes out lube. James spreads his legs, accommodating Steve's shoulders, and he hitches out a moan when Steve finally plunges two fingers inside him, rolling his hips to pull him deeper.

"Pretty panties, but no plug," observes Steve, brusquely fingering James open. "Not as easy access as last time."

"That plug wasn't for you, either," James says crossly.

Steve hums. "Of course not. Just making an observation. I would never _assume_."

"Good," grunts James, tossing his head back and relaxing into the rough plunge of Steve's fingers. "Wouldn't want to be any more of an ass than you already are."

Steve grins savagely and adds another finger. James wails, shuddering around him and digging the heel of his foot into Steve's shoulder. "Something tells me you like it when I'm an ass."

"Delusional _and_ a brute, then," grinds out James, shuddering as Steve prods against his prostate roughly. "Ah! Ohhhh, _fuck_ that's good, Steve."

Steve narrows his eyes and pulls out his fingers. Flattening his hand, Steve brings his palm down in a series of rough smacks against James's thighs, his balls, and, finally, his cock. James screams, wriggling and kicking out at Steve, who easily subdues him. "Only good boys get rewards, James," he says evenly, holding James by his thighs to keep him folded in half and spread wide. "You want to be fucked like you so sorely need, like you've probably _never_ been fucked in your long life, then you use the name I've _earned_."

"Cocky son of a bitch," hisses James. He's not out of breath, he _can’t_ be, but there's still a breathlessness about him, as if maybe he misses the need for it now more than ever.

Even just ruffling James's appearance is satisfying—the desperation and strain is evident in his bitten lips and mussed hair, the slightly wild look about his wide eyes. James is the kind of creature that despises loss of control, specifically of his image, and yet here he is, willingly debauched in Steve's bed. 

It's a gift, really. 

"I think you'll find that I'm very stubborn," says Steve, pinning James harder.

James's face twists, and he blinks rapidly, his eyes suddenly glossy with tears. With a pathetic sniff, he whispers, "Daddy, _please_."

"Please, what?" demands Steve, keeping his voice hard. 

"Please fuck me!"

"Sure, baby," he murmurs because he wants James to understand that when he's soft and sweet, Steve will be too. "Of course I will, when you ask so nicely."

James whines, plush mouth a perfect pout, but Steve just taps his lips. "None of that. Now, hold your legs for me."

When James does as he's told, Steve picks up the lube and smears it over his cock, giving himself a few quick tugs, before he guides it to the sweet little hole waiting for him. It's a tight fit this time, James just barely prepared, but he takes it anyway, head tossed back as Steve pries him open wide and pushes in. 

The close squeeze is intoxicating, James's body rippling around him as he moans. Steve lets out a grunt, sweat prickling the back of his neck at the pressure. He pauses only for a moment before he rocks back on his heels and snaps his hips forward, forcing James to take all of him without stopping to let him adjust. It's not something he'd do with a human partner, not without a lot more prep, but James _takes_ it, back arching as pretty sounds fall from his parted lips. 

"Just made to take cock, weren't you? A pretty boy with a greedy hole, just made for fucking," groans Steve, settling in to a brutal, demanding rhythm that has him pushing James up the bed until he has to throw a hand out to keep himself in place for every one of Steve's thrusts. 

James nods, hiccups. "Y-yes, I—oh _fuck_ , that's so good, that's— _harder_ , you fucking beast!"

Steve lets it slide. James is volatile, veering wildly between barbed insults and sweet behavior, and it's clear he won't be won over in just one night. After all, Steve's already softened him, coaxed him into acknowledging their mutual needs, and that's more than enough. 

"Can you take that?" Steve grits out, teeth bared, as he braces his hands on the mattress and drives into James with more force. They'd sooner break the furniture than hurt each other, and sure enough, James yowls and arches into the rough snap of Steve's hip. 

He goes silent, head tossed back and throat bared, eyes closed, body tightening around Steve. His cock is trapped between them, hard and wet, but he does reach down to touch himself, so Steve ignores it too. If James wants to come like this, then far be it from Steve to stop him. It's dangerously good. Steve's body responds to the freedom of force, recognizing James's scent as, if not the same species, a _familiar_ one, and he nearly loses control as the urge to change tugs at his skin. 

His teeth itch, restless to lengthen and drop, the tips of his fingers burning as his claws threaten to pop. 

Steve wants, more than anything, to knot James. It's an urgent, full-body compulsion, the change just waiting to burst forth. Before it can overwhelm him entirely, he catches James's slack mouth in a harsh kiss and spills inside him, orgasm rushing up to eclipse the strong desire to shift. 

James lets out a muffled whimper, tensing up and jerking with his own climax. He clings to Steve, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders as he shudders out the aftershocks.

The afterglow only takes them so far. Soon enough, little huffs of discomfort and the sharp drag of nails digging into Steve's shoulders alert him that James is done with being pinned to the bed beneath Steve's hulking mass. Fair enough.

Steve pushes up, his cock dragging out of James's ass with a wet squelch, come dripping out of him. Warmth curls into Steve’s belly, the sweet rush of satisfaction overwhelming him with endorphins, and he can't help the way he reaches out to finger it, playing with the mess he left behind. James tolerates it for a moment before he whines and knocks Steve's hand away. "That's enough."

"Oh, of course, pardon me, I thought you _wanted_ me to mark you, to get… _territorial_ —isn’t that what you said?" Steve smirks at James, enjoying the pink flush on his cheeks and the way he rolls his eyes. 

"Ugh, charming.” James smacks Steve’s chest. “Now, _move_ , I want to get washed up. You'll have to give me something to wear, since you decided to rip all my clothes off like an _animal_." He keeps doing that, when he thinks it might get a rise out of Steve. Or to reinforce the distance between them, maybe. _Monster. Beast. Animal. Brute_. 

Steve's heard worse and he's not bothered. He is all of those things. He's certainly not human. "I seem to remember you enjoying it."

James rolls over and crawls his way to the edge of the bed, getting up as he shoots a disdainful look over his shoulder. "Maybe it was all an act. Maybe I just want what I want, and I don't care if you need to play the part of a feral dog in the process."

"Tell yourself whatever you wish," Steve says dismissively, because he's sated, and James's barbed tongue has no real effect on him. 

His _absence_ is irritating, though. Steve sprawls on his belly, watching James disappear naked into the bathroom, pert ass bouncing as he goes. It's not right to just let him go wash all evidence of their coupling away. Steve wants to drag him back, curl him into his arms, saturate him with Steve's scent. He wants it to linger. In the adjoining bathroom, the shower kicks on, and Steve grumbles at the loss. 

Eventually, he rises from the bed, picking up James’s discarded, ruined clothes, and throwing them out. The clothes he selects for him are nowhere near as fashionable, a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. They're what Steve wore the previous evening, and it calms the part of him that's bothered by the fact that James left his bed so soon after they finished fucking. 

James emerges half an hour later, fully showered, hair damp and curling, and rolls his eyes at the outfit Steve laid out on the bed. 

"You ruined an outfit that cost upwards of a thousand dollars, and you're making me wear your gym clothes home?" he demands, though he pulls the sweats on and tugs the drawstring tight to keep them from falling off his narrow hips. 

"I'll take you shopping next week," Steve says. He hasn't bothered to dress himself, still lying in their mingled mess. He watches eagerly as James pulls the shirt over his head, swimming in the oversized, soft clothes. 

"You better," grumbles James. "Don't get up," he adds, waving Steve off as he goes to stand. "I'll see myself out."

Steve bites his tongue on the offer for James to stay the night. He wants to make it, but he knows it would only be thrown back in his face. James truly is a hissing cat. He slips his feet into leather loafers and then pins Steve with a look. "I have prior commitments the next several nights, so don't get overeager."

Steve laughs. "Don't worry, I'll be just the right amount of eager."

With his head held high and his back straight, James strides from the room with the grace of a ballerina that’s dressed in the sweat-soaked apparel of a lumbering jock. Steve rumbles his dissatisfaction, listening to his steps recedes across his townhome and out the door. 

For a little while, Steve allows himself the time to enjoy their mingled scents, rutting lazily against the sheets with no real aim. While he luxuriates, he decides he’ll have flowers delivered to James in the morning, something elaborate and ostentatious. That’ll really get him going, he thinks. Just the idea that flowers will likely piss James off gives Steve such a fond feeling. 

He’s just rolling over, ready to finally get up, when he notices a bundle of fabric peeking out from under the edge of the bed, something bright pink and lacy.

It's not like there's anyone around to see him. 

Steve plucks up the panties, shoving his nose in them and inhaling deeply. The predominant scent is James's come, though even that is muted, and Steve rolls over onto his back, letting out a shuddering breath. It would probably be bad form to mail these back to him. But James was _so_ insistent on them not being ruined, he likely wants to keep them, right? He just forgot to put them back on, and now Steve is in charge of them. 

This really is unfamiliar territory. Steve has half a mind to shift, curl up right here, and go to sleep surrounded by the lingering memory of their sex before the scent fades entirely. 

Sighing, he fumbles around until he finds his phone, scrolling through to check any missed messages. He's buzzing, still, high on some unspecified after-effect of James's presence. 

Then there was the sex itself.... Steve hasn't forgotten that strong urge to shift. 

He frowns, tapping out a text. 

**Steve** : I have to ask you some invasive questions  
**Sam** : Well  
**Sam** : That's a promising start to a late night conversation  
**Steve** : Best friend privilege  
**Steve** : :D?  
**Sam** : This is going to be about sex, isn't it  
**Steve** : It's going to be about vampires  
**Steve** : and also sex  
**Sam** : 👀👀👀  
**Steve** : his name is james. i met him at the gallery fashion show.  
**Sam** : I see. Go on.  
**Steve** : We fucked then and I took him out tonight and we fucked again  
**Sam** : I'm starting to suspect there are no questions and you just wanted to brag about getting your dick wet  
**Steve** : there IS a question, I'm just trying to give you context!  
**Sam** : I have context. You fucked the undead twice. What is the question?  
**Steve** : 😑  
**Steve** : have you ever...uh, felt the urge to shift while having sex?  
**Sam** : [...]  
**Sam** : [...]  
**Sam** :  
**Sam** : [...]  
**Steve** : IT'S A YES OR NO QUESTION JUST ANSWER PLEASE  
**Sam** : I'm TRYING!  
**Sam** : FIRST OF ALL, you're right, that is an invasive question. Second of all, you've been alive for three hundred years longer than me and you're telling me you've never had the urge to shift while having sex before?  
**Steve** : no!! you say that like it's COMMON.  
**Sam** : It is if you're having good enough sex. What have you been DOING, man?  
**Steve** : ...humans, mostly.  
**Sam** : I can't believe this  
**Steve** : they're breakable! I'm CAREFUL  
**Sam** : it's a power thing  
**Steve** : [...]  
**Sam** : and I don't mean it like THAT  
**Sam** : I mean literal, physical power  
**Sam** : magic  
**Steve** : it felt like we were feeding into each other  
**Sam** : that's the idea  
**Steve** : like a conduit  
**Sam** : again, yes  
**Steve** : does it happen every time?  
**Sam** : this conversation is wild, steve  
**Sam** : are you asking me specifically? like when I have sex with riley?  
**Steve** : you are both werewolves  
**Steve** : I don't exactly have another point of reference  
**Sam** : you've NEVER had sex with another werewolf??  
**Steve** : of course i have but it wasn't like this  
**Steve** : and then there was peggy  
**Sam** : who was fae and mortal  
**Steve** : is. She's still alive, you know.  
**Sam** : right, i've just never met her. She was before my time. My point still stands  
**Steve** : yeah i guess. there was...something there but i still had to be careful of my strength  
**Sam** : and i take it the wolves you've been with before never brought out strong feelings?  
**Steve** : not like this  
**Sam** : then i think i've answered your question  
**Steve** : yes, thank you  
**Sam** : so do vampires have to feed to get it up?  
**Steve** : SAM!  
**Sam** : oh now it's too invasive? You asked your questions. I get to ask my own now  
**Steve** : okay okay  
**Steve** : I have NO idea, honestly.  
**Steve** : he'd definitely fed before both encounters, but not on me. Don't know if he needs it for sex or if he was just hungry  
**Sam** : Interesting.  
**Steve** : Is it??  
**Steve** : Anyway, I'm done with the conversation now. Say hi to Riley for me.  
**Sam** : Cannot BELIEVE you've spent 400 years fucking **humans**  
**Steve** : It hasn't just been humans!! Peggy is definitely not just human, and I fuck werewolves, okay, but it's never—I don't want a mate.  
**Sam** : WOW. Okay, I see how it is. I should tell your mother.  
**Steve** : About my SEX LIFE?  
**Sam** : Fine. You're lucky the very idea terrifies me.  
**Steve** : HA.  
**Sam** : Leave me alone. Gonna go have amazing sex with my husband. Sucks to be you!!

Steve groans and tosses his phone aside, holding James's panties to his nose and sighing. 

The scent has all but faded now. Vampires really don't have that musky quality that breathing creatures with beating hearts tend to produce. What a shame. 

It doesn’t matter. He needs to find the perfect flowers to send to James. 

In the end, after spending quite a bit of time on Google researching the language of flowers, Steve arranges the delivery of a massive bouquet of chamomile for tomorrow evening, when James wakes up. He also locates the seller of the panties in question after a dedicated search of local lingerie boutiques, and has a rush order sent to arrive in time with the flowers. 

He’s keeping the originals, and he doesn't care if James accuses him of being a filthy animal because of it.


	4. Bucky

This truly is the week from hell. 

Bucky does not exactly _flee_ from Steve's apartment, but he does remove himself from it with alacrity, desperate to recover some form of equilibrium. He flags down a cab, skulking miserably under the streetlights in his borrowed clothes, which smell like _Steve_. His nose may not be as sharp as a werewolf's, but he can smell the clean sweat and lingering musk of a great big hulking beast like _Steve_ all over the outfit he was given to drag himself home in. 

Climbing into the back of the cab, he gives his address tersely and glowers out the window. He wasn’t hoping for the sex to be bad, but at least if it had been _worse_ , he could have convinced himself that the first encounter was a fluke, and this entire situation was ridiculous to entertain. 

Instead, the sex was _amazing_. Bucky's left with a throbbing ass and aches in places that haven't yet smoothed over as his cells regenerate, and he is _livid_ to admit that Steve is precisely what he's been missing all these years. 

What a profound nightmare. 

Bucky discards the borrowed clothes the moment he steps back inside his apartment, leaving them on the floor of the entryway and padding straight into the bathroom. 

Alpine yowls at him accusingly from the kitchen and Bucky yells back, "You _ate before I left_!"

He showered at Steve's, but he rinses off again anyway before he puts on his own clean clothes. "This doesn't seem worth it," he says to Alpine when she pokes her head into the bedroom. Tugging a hoodie on, he runs his fingers through his hair and lets out an exaggerated groan.

She meows loudly and then trots over to hop onto the bed, turning in at least five circles before she begins kneading the bedding into an appropriate arrangement, turns twice more and finally decides it's an acceptable place to curl up. Bucky purses his lips. "Well, you're no help."

He climbs onto the bed next to her, careful not to disturb her carefully chosen spot. She eyes him like a criminal anyhow, gets up, stretches once, and then lays back down a few extra inches away, just to make it clear she's displeased. Bucky rolls his eyes and then gets on Twitter to see if anything interesting happened while he was getting his brains screwed out by a werewolf. 

God, there had been moments when Bucky almost felt like his heart was beating again, like he could feel life rushing through him, lungs fluttering with oxygen and blood. One decent fuck, the first truly satisfying reaming in over 200 years, and suddenly it's a rebirth. How pathetic. 

Bucky just needs to see some of his other clients. Once he remembers that he _likes_ being doted on and coddled and spoiled, it will be abundantly clear that he certainly doesn't need whatever the hell happened with Steve Rogers. 

He wastes the last few hours of darkness sulking and when the sun rises, he mixes up a very literal bloody mary and takes a nice long doze. Vampires don’t really need sleep, but he likes the mindlessness of floating in a semi-conscious state. 

When he regains awareness, it's to the buzzer alerting him that a delivery has arrived.

Bucky scowls up at the ceiling, briefly confused. 

He hasn't ordered any packages, but then again, that doesn't mean anything. Any one of his clients may have sent him a gift. Considerably buoyed by this thought, Bucky picks himself up out of his bed and goes to buzz up the delivery person. 

It's some kind of bouquet, obviously, though it's wrapped in paper. 

"Sign here, please," says the delivery person, holding out the tablet. Bucky scrawls out his signature, trying not to preen. "This, too," he says, presenting Bucky with a wrapped box. 

"Thank you," says Bucky, fizzy with anticipation

"Have a good one." The delivery person waves him off. 

Bucky manages to kick the door shut behind him, carrying the gifts inside to the dining room table. He's not expecting to find _Steve's_ name on the card for both the gifts, his heart sinking a little. That smug asshole. What could he have possibly sent— 

Ripping off the paper, he finds a big full bouquet of—daisies? 

Frowning, Bucky throws a log on the fire, ready to stoke the embers of his offense. Really? Common garden flowers? He snatches up the card again and turns it over. There's nothing, no message, because of course not. Bending closer, he sniffs cautiously at the blooms and finds they smell strongly of tea. 

"What the fuck," he says aloud. "Chamomile? What the hell is this?"

He narrows his eyes and then turns his attention to the box, ripping it open. Inside he finds...his panties. No. They have a tag on them. These ones are brand new, never been worn. Which means...

Bucky turns on his heels and stomps back to the front door, where last night’s borrowed clothes are still lying crumpled on the floor. He tears through them, tossing one article after another over his shoulder. No panties. Which means he left his _actual_ pair at Steve's and that filthy fuck kept them and sent him a new pair instead. 

It's not as if he's never had a client ask for his panties before. He's not a prude, he's a professional fucking sugar baby. But the fact that he _knows_ Steve got off on them smelling like him, that of all people Steve would actually be able to distinguish some sort of scent, has him feeling warm all over. Steve seems to revel in his inhumanity, the things that make him different, where Bucky's spent every second of his life wishing— 

No. He's not going down that road. He's going to have a nice evening with his date, gonna get all pretty and sweet and let Barry Daniels take him out for a fun evening.

His date with Barry is, as always, fine. 

_Just_ fine. Bucky doesn't know whether it's the specter of Steven G. Rogers hanging over his head, haunting him with a big bouquet of shitty flowers and a replacement pair of underwear, or if he's just _bored_. 

Barry's been a client for a long time, and he is sweet and attentive, one of Bucky's more consistent regulars, so Bucky is well-versed in what to expect: a broadway play, expensive drinks, a delicate gold chain bracelet, and sucking Barry's dick in the bedroom of his big, comfortable East Village apartment. 

Bucky doesn't even really need to feed, but Barry offers up his neck in the afterglow, and Bucky obliges him because the animal part of his brain will never, ever turn down a free meal. Barry's not the kind of guy that can get it up more than once—because _most_ men above a certain age can't, and that is _preferable_ —so they finish up, Bucky lets Barry cuddle him a little, and then he's calling a ride home. 

He shouldn't be so out of sorts. He shouldn't still be thinking about Steve pinning him down to his bed and huffing hot breaths all over his trembling body, before— 

"Fuck!" yells Bucky, slamming the door of his apartment. The big bouquet of chamomile sits on his dining room table, mocking him. What the fuck is the point of it? Is Bucky supposed to dry it out and boil it into tea? What does this _mean_?

Red roses are for love, obviously. Straightforward, romantic love. He knows that much. Other flowers? 

Scowling, he pulls up his phone's browser and stabs at the keys: _chamomile flowers meaning_

> In the language of flowers, chamomile has been said to mean “patience in adversity,” and it is a meaning that whispers through all its many soothing and healing uses throughout history and today.

Patience in adversity.

What the ever-loving _fuck_.

* * *

* * *

Is Steve saying that dealing with Bucky requires patience in _adversity_? Bucky will show him adversity!

He snatches the flowers up and brings them into the kitchen. Ripping the paper towel out of the dispenser, he lays out layer after layer, spreading the flowers out on top before adding another layer of paper towels. Then he stacks every heavy book he has in the apartment over top, pressing them down. 

Bucky isn’t quite sure what he's going to do with them once they dry, but he definitely refuses to let them sit on his counter in a vase. Maybe he'll make them into a nice bath product or brew actual tea and then send it to Steve. _Hope this helps you develop some patience!_

Leaving the flowers to dry, he stalks off to his bedroom, stripping himself out of his clothes. Alpine looks up from her perch on the window. She meows loudly, as if she just wants to be sure he's there to pay attention to her now, and not his own petty concerns. 

"Yes, I hear you," he says, pulling on a thick, soft hoodie and a pair of leggings. "I know, I'm sorry I left you alone to fend for yourself. It must have been so difficult to sleep for five hours in a row."

She stands on her perch, stretching out, flicks her tails once, and then turns to settle back down. She shuts her eyes without acknowledging him again. 

"Ugh."

Bucky flops into bed. Despite the fact that he just told himself he wouldn't think about a certain werewolf, he finds himself pulling up his last texts with Steve.

**Bucky** : could you be more of a cliche, rogers? keeping my underwear? have you chewed on them like a bad dog, too?  
**Steve** : didn't think of that, actually  
**Steve** : do you want me to report back on how they taste?

Shock ripples through him like a bolt of electricity, and because of his recent feeding, heat floods to his cheeks. He stares at the phone, jaw hanging open. 

**Bucky** : you are VILE  
**Steve** : I didn't expect you to be such a sweet little prude, you know  
**Bucky** : I'm NOT  
**Bucky** : you're just NASTY  
**Steve** : got my delivery, then?  
**Bucky** : I refuse to reinforce what you already clearly know  
**Bucky** : I'm sure you think you're very clever and funny  
**Steve** : You didn't put your panties back on when you left. I wasn't about to courier you a ruined pair.  
**Bucky** : yes, and keeping them was just a nice bonus, right?  
**Steve** : pink is my favorite color.  
**Bucky** : oh PLEASE

"Ugh!" he yells, because this is ridiculous. Steve Rogers is a ridiculous, awful, crude, crass _brute_. 

**Bucky** : I wasn't aware that dogs could see color  
**Steve** : that's good  
**Steve** : haven't heard that one before  
**Bucky** : clients normally send me much classier gifts  
**Steve** : are you turning this into a teachable moment?  
**Bucky** : I wouldn't bother trying to teach an old dog new tricks  
**Steve** : you're cute :)

"I could block his number," he says, raising his head and directing his comment at Alpine, who twitches an ear lazily in his direction but otherwise doesn't budge. "I could delete him from my phone and my _life_."

Surely this frenzied energy that fills him to bursting whenever Steve engages him isn't worth it. He's _annoyed_. Surely Bucky isn't so desperate for excitement that he throws himself onto the first presence that makes him feel anything at all. 

**Bucky** : thank you for the tea, also  
**Bucky** : very fresh, but i can work with that  
**Steve** : you're welcome. I'm thoughtful that way.  
**Bucky** : you're awful, that's what.  
**Steve** : mmm, but we already established that you like when I'm awful. 😘  
**Bucky** : a 400 year old man shouldn't use KISSY FACE emojis!!  
**Steve** : I'm not a man. I'm a wolf, as you're so fond of reminding me. 

Bucky nearly throws his phone across the room.

**Steve** : I'm free on Tuesday.  
**Bucky** : I'm happy for you.  
**Steve** : you ever hear the expression, 'you're like a dog with a bone?'  
**Bucky** : of course  
**Steve** : you're the bone, honey. I'll pick you up at 9 PM sharp.

Bucky has half a mind to say he's busy, but he knows he's not. He doesn't have a date that night yet and he can't make himself give up the chance to feel that spark again. Steve Rogers might be an absolute ass, but he's undeniably good in bed.

**Bucky** : fine. take me someplace nice. and you owe me a new outfit.  
**Steve** : I haven't forgotten. I'll see you Tuesday.

Bucky groans and closes his eyes, trying to picture himself on a beach under the moon somewhere far away from here. He could be. He could just go, pack up a suitcase and Alpine and have one of his more devoted suitors whisk him away. They ask often enough, offer him trips on their private planes. He's just always been reluctant to leave the city, to risk running into...anyone.

Bucky startles as a heavy weight plops onto the bed and then immediately trots over to him, kneading his stomach with a rumbling purr. "I am _not_ bread and if I were, you would be overworking the dough!"

Alpine, as always, does not react, and simply turns up the volume of her purr. 

Is that why Bucky likes her so much? She's the only presence in his life that doesn't react or respond or, worse, give in to his theatrics. She simply is, and isn't that just a sad fact? His cat can't spoil him, and so she is the only grounding influence in his life. 

"Maybe Barry will buy me a small, deserted island," he mumbles, settling a hand on her soft white fur and petting her gently. "He'd want to visit, though. And I'd need to eat."

He sighs deeply, closing his eyes. Steve Rogers also does not otherwise react or respond to his theatrics. He still spoils him, though. 

For the first time in quite a while, Bucky wishes he had some kind of confidante that _could_ do more than just listen. 

"A therapist," he says aloud, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. "You're thinking of a therapist, Bucky. You can just get one. You can pay someone to listen to your inane existential crisis."

He is gripped, briefly, by the insane urge to call Steve and talk to him. Steve is immortal, too. Steve is older than him, even, and knows better than anyone else that Bucky has ever met what this feeling is all choked up in his chest. 

Steve is also an insufferable bastard. 

Tuesday. Will it be dinner, again? A museum? The opera?

Whatever it will be, he is _not_ eager to find out.

Bucky spends the next several days continuing on his quest to return to his version of normal. Of course, he also has two dozen chamomile flowers pressing in his kitchen and the horrible desire to actually _share_ his _feelings_ with someone, but he's got practice repressing that. 

Tuesday dawns as he arrives back home from his latest date, this time with Jason Davenport. He's a divorced, fifty-something investment banker who likes to take Bucky places he knows they’ll be seen and reported back to his ex-husband, another fifty-something. Bucky thinks it's kind of funny considering he's four times as old as either of them. It's still nice. Jason likes Bucky to ride his cock while Bucky drinks his blood, so it always leaves him feeling energized and pleased. 

Maybe Bucky should just cancel on Steve. He doesn't need to go. He could just put an end to all of this.

He doesn’t cancel.

Instead, he spends the morning getting cleaned up, feeding Alpine, and picking out several potential outfits for his date. He also follows the recipe he found for making chamomile and lavender bath oil, packaging it up in a pretty glass container and tying a bow on it. He can’t wait to see the look on Steve’s face. 

Then he puts on a face mask and curls up in bed to find that soft, floating place, devoid of thought. 

When he gets up in the late afternoon, he has a text from Steve. 

**Steve** : we’re going shopping first so no need to wear anything fancy. You’ll wear something I pick out after.

Bucky blinks at his phone. Shopping? At 9 PM? 

**Bucky** : this isn't a trick, is it?  
**Bucky** : I show up in leggings and a sweatshirt and you bring me somewhere extremely public?  
**Steve** : that's a good idea for a prank  
**Steve** : but no  
**Steve** : I'm going to buy you a new outfit  
**Bucky** : tempting...  
**Steve** : were you having second thoughts?  
**Bucky** : more like third thoughts  
**Steve** : you wound me, james  
**Bucky** : I'll see you at 9, rogers

Tossing his phone aside, Bucky gets up to take a shower. Well, he doesn't need any of the possible outfits he laid out, then. He refuses to go full grunge, the memory of Patrick catching him at the vet still a painful sting, but he won't bother to accessorize if he's just going to end up wearing something entirely new. 

He _does_ take the time to curl his hair, rolling it up loose and then blow-drying it on low. He ends up with thick, bouncy ringlets cascading over his shoulders, which he sweeps into a loose ponytail worn over his left shoulder. As for clothing, he settles for a pair of skinny jeans and a sweater he wouldn't be embarrassed to be seen in. 

"Well," he says to Alpine, a few minutes before 9. "What do you think? The goal here is to look casual and disinterested, but also like I rolled out of bed and my hair was completely perfect."

Alpine _mrrps_ at him, coiling between his legs to rub against his ankles. 

" _Your_ goal is to trip me," says Bucky. "Sabotage at every turn. I don't look desperate, right? I'll settle for just not looking _desperate_."

His phone buzzes, and Bucky sighs, finding a text from Steve letting him know he's arrived. 

"Okay. Don't wait up. I have no idea what to expect."

When he exits his building, Steve is already waiting beside a limousine, wearing a perfectly cut jacket over a light pink shirt, open at the throat, matched with elegant slacks that emphasize both the length and breadth of his legs. Bucky flicks his gaze up to Steve's face. "Your outfit is suspect."

Steve laughs, opening the door for him. "Oh, is it?"

"Yes. I will not be getting out of the vehicle if we pull up anywhere that isn't exclusively for spending your money on expensive clothes for me," he says primly, stepping forward.

Steve smiles as if he's indulging a favored pet, leaning in to press a kiss to Bucky's cheek, which Bucky graciously allows. "Don't you worry your pretty little head, baby. Gonna treat you just how you deserve."

Bucky seats himself in the limousine, the door closing behind him before Steve reappears on the other side, sliding in next to Bucky. "You look good, by the way."

"Of course I do." Bucky tosses his hair over his shoulder, hoping the natural fragrance from the fancy organic products he uses slap Steve in the face.

Steve's nostrils do flare, but he otherwise just smiles serenely. "That's what I like about you. Your modesty."

"Am I supposed to pretend I don't know I'm beautiful?" Bucky asks. He leans back in his seat, crossing his leg at the knee, and surfaces the bottle of bath oil. "I have a gift for you."

Steve's eyebrows go up. "Oh?" He reaches out to accept the bottle and immediately raises it to his nose to take a sniff. "Lavender? Chamomile? I'm not sure I..." He trails off as realization sweeps through him, and then he _laughs_. "Did you make this for me, sugar?"

Bucky's stomach knots up with some indefinable feeling he doesn't care to examine. "What else was I supposed to do with that enormous bunch of _weeds_? Boil it all into tea?" he asks, voice icy. "It's bath oil. Maybe if you soak in it long enough, you'll gain the energy and fortitude required to deal with my attitude."

Steve lets out another pleased huff of laughter, holding the delicate glass bottle in his huge hands. He flicks his gaze up to meet Bucky's glower, his eyes darkening. "Thank you," he says, lowering his voice to a rumble. "Patience isn't my strength."

"Yes, well," sniffs Bucky. "I hope you're not faced with any significant _adversity_ in your life that you're not equipped to deal with."

"I may not be very patient, but I don't give up," Steve says mildly.

Bucky knows what it’s like for someone to not give up on him. "That's not always a good thing," he says simply, looking away. 

Steve is quiet and Bucky can feel him staring, taking in everything Bucky is saying and not saying. Bucky's about to snap at him to quit it when Steve reaches over, fingers sliding through his loose curls and turning Bucky to face him. "I don't give up, but I do take no for an answer. James, if you don't want—"

"Ugh, stop," snaps Bucky, heat flooding his cheeks. "If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't. I told you, I'm not desperate and I'm perfectly capable of getting along without you. I won't say it again, so don't go asking for me to fuel your ego."

Steve strokes his cheek as if Bucky didn't just snap at him, still looking terribly tender. "I'll keep that in mind."

Rolling his eyes, Bucky looks out the window, trying to track where they're headed. They're sliding through the streets of Manhattan with surprising ease and Bucky hopes they get to their destination sooner than later. He's out of his element again, knocked off-kilter by Steve's sincerity and careful regard for Bucky's desires. While the men he entertains are deliberately selected because of the way they spoil and dote on him, they ultimately know they're paying for a service and they expect a return.

Steve refused his contract, though. Without that, Bucky must reconcile the fact that because Steve lights a fire in him that traditional clients don't, they're now engaging in more of a relationship than a professional service. 

He feels vulnerable. There's nothing tying him here, he can leave any time with impunity, and yet that freedom is terrifying, because he'd have to decide how he actually feels about it. Steve sees something in him that Bucky doesn't remotely understand. He's not this much of a brat with _any_ of his clients—save Keller, who spurned him—but Steve seems to _thrive_ when they're bickering. Steve _wants_ him to be a brat. He said so himself, and while part of Bucky dismissed that scornfully, he's seeing now that Steve was absolutely dead serious. The worse Bucky behaves, the more Steve seems to want him.

The limo pulls to a stop, and Steve says, "We're here. Is this to your liking?"

Bucky digs himself out of the pit he's been wallowing in to peer out the window at the boutique's facade. He doesn't recognize the name, but it's clearly exactly what Steve said it would be. 

"I suppose I'll find out," says Bucky. 

Because he's committed to the image, he waits for Steve to get out and circle around to open the car door for him, then brushes past Steve. It's after hours, of course, but they're greeted at the entrance by a personal shopper, and Bucky instantly sheds the sullen attitude and lights up brightly for them.

It's not _her_ fault Steve is insufferable. There's a second employee in the store and they each introduce themselves with warm smiles. "Hello, Mr. Barnes, I'm Layla—" "—and I'm Theresa."

Steve must have told them his name ahead of time. Smooth, making it clear that he's there to be pampered, obviously. "Hello, thank you for staying late. I hope you're getting paid extra." He looks pointedly at Steve with a little smirk.

"Oh, we're being very well taken care of, Mr. Barnes. Now let us take care of you," says Layla. 

"Can I get you a glass of champagne?" asks Theresa.

"Yes, please." 

Bucky allows them to usher him inside to a beautiful dressing room with a big comfortable couch that Steve sits in next to him. They bring him champagne and a tray of fancy cheeses and chocolate and the biggest, juiciest strawberries Bucky's seen in a long time. 

"Mr. Rogers let us know ahead of time what your measurements were and some of the styles he wanted to see you in, so we've pulled some items from our inventory we think you'll enjoy."

There are two clothing racks behind them, and Layla briefly goes through each of the twelve assembled outfits with Bucky. Both women stick around while he tries on the first, checking the fit when he emerges from the dressing room in pinstriped trousers and a sharp blazer, but once they seem satisfied that the provided measurements are accurate, they leave him with instructions to ring a bell if he needs them.

Bucky is alone with Steve in the dressing room, wearing some _very_ expensive clothes while he plucks up his champagne flute and takes a sip. "Shouldn't you tell me where we're going tonight, so I have an idea of what's appropriate to wear?" he asks, arching an eyebrow. 

Leaning back on the couch, Steve shrugs one shoulder. "I know where we're going, and so did Layla and Theresa when they assembled the options."

"There is literally no rhyme or reason to what's on this rack, aside from the astronomical price tags," Bucky objects, turning in a slow circle and looking at his ass in the mirror in these tight pants. 

Steve hums. "Maybe I'm just curious if there's anything you _don't_ look good in."

"Please," scoffs Bucky, tossing his hair over his shoulder and pouting. "You know there isn't."

Steve’s smile spreads slowly across his face and he brings his own glass to his lips. “Can’t argue there. You are easy on the eyes.”

There’s something in his gaze that prickles at the back of Bucky’s neck, like—like he’s the prey to Steve’s predator. It’s been so long since he’s ever had reason to feel that way he’s not even sure he remembers, but there’s no mistaking it now. “Stop that,” he says, surprised at the way his voice comes out rough and small. 

“Stop what?” Steve lifts an eyebrow, which only accentuates that terrible smirk. 

“You know what!” Bucky sets his glass down and turns on his heels to pick out the next outfit. “I’m not dinner!”

This draws out a long, rumbling laugh. “Oh, I’m not sure about that. You’re definitely more substantial than a simple snack, James.”

For all that Bucky has spent decades being called nothing but some form of James, the name suddenly grates on him. He can’t explain it and he doesn’t act on it, but it has him bristling. “Fine, if you’re so determined for me to play dress up for you, which of these should I try on next?”

Steve just looks at him for a long moment, his expression calculating, and then flicks his gaze almost dismissively to the rack of clothes. "There's a pair of leather pants in there somewhere."

"Of course there is," huffs Bucky, but he rifles through until he finds it, a pair of genuine leather skinny jeans and an accompanying plain white v-neck t-shirt. If he's wearing this and standing next to Steve in his pale pastel color palette, they're going to contrast sharply. 

Still, Steve wants to see him in it, so Bucky disappears into the changing room and puts it on. Everything really is expertly tailored, and the buttery soft leather hugs him closely, without being too snug. The shirt is almost over-sized, hanging loose over his shoulders and exposing his clavicle. 

"This is _extremely_ slutty," he declares when he emerges. "So unless that's the theme of wherever we're going, this one probably goes to the "no" pile."

Steve's eyes flare gold when they take Bucky in, sweeping down his body from head to toe with a level of scrutiny that digs its fingers into Bucky's hindbrain and turns his knees to water. Every time Steve looks at him, he's being visibly devoured. 

Swallowing hard, Bucky straightens his spine in a weak attempt to shake off the sensation. "Well? Slutty lost boy?"

Steve's lips curve into a smile. His eyes have settled back into a much more human shade of blue. "Even if you don't wear that tonight, those pants should be in your collection. Would you turn around for me?"

"Shameless," mutters Bucky, but he turns slowly, letting Steve take a good, long look at the way the material hugs his ass.

Steve rumbles, an animal appreciation that makes Bucky shiver. He refuses to respond, undoing the top button and pushing them over his hips. Then he puts one hand on the mirror for balance and bends over to pull his feet free of each pant leg, letting Steve look his fill at his bare ass. 

"You know," says Steve. "I believe I had a nice selection of lingerie set aside, too."

"Oh?" Bucky glances over his shoulder, lifting an eyebrow in affected curiosity. 

"There’s a red set I think would look nice under that charcoal suit."

Bucky smirks and saunters over to the small table of lingerie. The set Steve picked is by far the classiest one chosen for him. He licks his lips and examines the delicate silk of the undergarment. It's a teddy, the silk giving way to a lacy halter style top. There's a satin ribbon to tie it into place. He'll feel it on every inch of his skin the whole night if he wears it under his clothes. Without looking at Steve, he snatches it up and takes it into the changing room.

Bucky is long past even the possibility of feeling insecure in lingerie. 

What he _isn't_ prepared for is the sudden vulnerability that engulfs him once it's on, and Steve is looking at him in it. Bucky just bared his ass to Steve while undressing, has been fucked by him twice, but standing under the fluorescent lights in a crimson silk teddy has anxiety twisting up in his gut.

He affects confidence, lifting his chin as he retrieves the three piece charcoal suit, with a grey silk shirt to go with it. There's no tie, so Bucky leaves it open at the throat, fingers trembling as he smooths the waistcoat and turns around for Steve, arching an eyebrow. "It's this one, isn't it? This is the only outfit that even _remotely_ complements yours."

"Good eye," Steve murmurs, his voice low and his eyes dark. "That's the outfit for tonight, yes. You get to keep all the other ones, too, though."

Bucky's eyes go wide. There are at least a dozen outfits set out and he didn't anticipate the flex. He clears his throat, giving his head a shake. "You're ridiculous."

"I wouldn't select all these with you in mind just to put them back," says Steve. "But this piece is what I pictured for tonight, and it's even better with you actually in it." He sounds so _fond_. 

"Then I suppose I'll wear it out," says Bucky, with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders. "And you can finally reveal where on earth we're even _going_."

It ends up being another art gallery, but this time, there's no one else in attendance. Aside from a host at the door and the staff behind the bar of the rooftop patio adjacent to the space, the gallery is exclusive to them.

"I know this place," Bucky says suddenly, reaching out to smack Steve on the arm. "Patrick was _dying_ to take me here, but the wait list is booked up for a _year_ because it's limited to private showings."

"Yes, well," says Steve, smiling at Bucky as though he's _pleased_ to have pleased him. "I helped the owner secure the space, so I just asked for a small favor."

He’s not even bragging, his tone clearly downplaying the impressiveness of the gesture. Bucky sucks on his bottom lip a moment and tries to decide the appropriate level of gratitude. When Bucky posts a few select shots on Instagram, which he knows for a _fact_ Patrick still stalks, it'll be a nice little fuck you. 

Idly, Bucky holds up his phone and takes a quick selfie with one of the more famous sculptures here in the background. "It's acceptable revenge. For now," he looks at Steve. "But I'll want something more definitive in the future."

Steve laughs, hand settling warm on the small of Bucky's back. "I plan for there to be many opportunities for you to show that petty human how badly he fucked up."

Bucky's voice catches as he opens his mouth to reply because Steve leans over and presses a soft kiss just behind his ear. "You are beautiful."

It's so—incongruous, the compliment delivered so softly and casually that it actually takes him by surprise. Before Bucky can react, Steve goes to the bar. Bucky is grateful for the chance to refocus and gather his thoughts. He'll want to take several artsy shots that aren't too obvious in their gloating but will piss Patrick off.

There are several things to consider when mentally planning Instagram revenge. 

First, it has to be clear where he is, immediately, so the first photo will showcase the space in a way that combines the gallery and the rooftop bar. Bucky has to include one selfie where he looks absolutely fucking immaculate while also making it clear he is definitely in the same space as the first photo. Next, he needs a handful of ambient shots that convey spending the evening there: his drink, more photos of individual art pieces, a candid shot of Steve mid-sentence, gesturing to a painting with his drink in hand. Finally, a shot of Bucky and Steve together, at the end of the night, cementing the narrative. 

It takes all night to perfect each shot, and Steve is indulgent of his photography, though Bucky is considerate to not focus _solely_ on recording their date. Obviously, this entire evening was engineered on Bucky's behalf to facilitate petty revenge, but Steve has clearly gone to a lot of effort to make it happen. Bucky gives him a good 95% of his attention, pausing to arrange shots at reasonable intervals. 

Unlike most galleries he’s visited, Bucky finds he actually likes the art. There's a wide range of artists and mediums on display, and several of the pieces stop him in his tracks. Steve is just knowledgeable enough to provide additional context without making Bucky feel like he's having the entire space explained to him, leaving Bucky to read the cards and captions as they explore. 

They enjoy several expertly-mixed cocktails, all of which have themes tied back to the pieces on display, and Steve also orders a few small plates of appetizers to enjoy while they take in the art. 

A couple of hours later, Bucky has carefully selected the photos that will kick Patrick all the way in the dick, and he's feeling—

Well, something. Fizzy. Light. He's having a really good time. 

"Get all the shots you need?" Steve murmurs, turning his head to press a kiss to Bucky's temple. It's crawling towards midnight. He wonders how long they're allowed to be here, and if it's time to take this date to the next stage. His skin is buzzing. 

"Oh, already posted, believe me," murmurs Bucky. "I really owe you, Rogers."

Steve chuckles, warm interest in his eyes. "Your enjoyment of the evening is all I need."

Bucky rolls his eyes at that, giving Steve a look of disbelief. "Don't pull my leg. We both walked into this arrangement with eyes wide open."

"Ah, well," Steve shrugs. "It's still up to me to set the terms of the relationship within your stated boundaries, correct?"

"Correct." Bucky feels cold as Steve leans away, tipping his head toward the door. He feels like he did something wrong, inexplicably, and it doesn't make sense. 

"Then, what I want is your pleasure." The way he says it is both suggestive but also _not_. "Did you have a good time tonight?"

Any witty rejoinder dies on his lips. "I had a lovely evening, thank you."

"You're very welcome." Steve steps close again, tucking a piece of Bucky's flowing hair behind his ear. "Let's get you home, shall we?"

"Home," echoes Bucky, his low-grade excitement ebbing away into confusion that settles cold and heavy into the pit of his belly. He clears his throat, tossing his head. "Of course. It's past your bedtime, hmm, old man?" He flashes Steve a sharp grin that he doesn't really feel, and Steve wraps his arm around Bucky's shoulders and guides him out of the gallery. 

Surely it's a game. A ruse, of some kind. He'll take Bucky home, but find a way to ask if he can come up for—a cup of coffee, or, something. Then Bucky will push him up against the wall and sink to his knees, and he'll pay Steve back. 

Only, Steve doesn't even try. When they pull up beside Bucky's building, he leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Bucky's lips, before sitting back and saying, "Thanks for joining me, James. Enjoy the rest of your night."

"Thanks," Bucky says numbly, trying desperately not to let any of what he's feeling show on his face. "You, too. Good night, Steve." He removes himself stiffly from the back of the limo, spine rigid as he goes inside. He doesn't glance back to see if Steve waits to make sure Bucky gets inside. 

There's no point, because of course he does. 

As Bucky rides the elevator up to his apartment, he stares at his reflection in the mirrored walls. 

He looks fucking _incredible_. There's absolutely no reason for Steve to flatter and spoil him if he's not going to take advantage of that. 

What's the fucking _point_?

He staggers into his apartment, slamming the door and stomping to his room. He can't remember the last time he got home from a date where they didn't reach second base. Steve didn't even _try_. There were so many opportunities, and he just—kissed Bucky and sent him off home. 

"What," says Bucky, " _the fuck_."


	5. Steve

Watching James enter his building, Steve sits back in his seat with a groan. 

James made it very clear he wasn’t pleased to be sent inside without any sexual attention. It's not as if Steve doesn’t want to give him that attention, either.

Steve wants to give it to him, alright. He wants to give it to him a little _too_ much right now. 

As the limousine pulls away from the curb, flashes of the moon high in the sky peek through the buildings. The apex of the full moon is in three nights and Steve can feel it under his skin, in his chest, in the ache of his teeth. The way that James makes him feel even on a regular day pulls his instincts to the forefront in an undeniable way; Steve really can’t risk it so close to the full moon, when the urge to shift already has his muscles aching and his fingertips burning with the phantom pain of a transformation.

Steve scrubs his fingernails through his hair, pulling at the longer strands until the bright pang of pain anchors him. He breathes out through his nose and reaches for his phone.

**Steve** : will I cramp your style if I come out to the estate early?  
**Sam** : of course not. you need to run through the woods naked or something?  
**Steve** : or something. just feeling restless.  
**Sam** : that boy of yours is really getting to you, huh?

Steve writes and rewrites a reply multiple times. He doesn't know what to say. What he really wants to do is deny it. It’s too early to admit something like that, isn’t it? He’s having fun with James. They’re not in a conventional relationship, though. Unable to dismiss it, Steve settles on ignoring the comment altogether. 

**Steve** : i'll see you tomorrow, sammy.  
**Sam** : oh it's like that?  
**Sam** : alright, I told Riley. Drive safe.

This is good. He'll go out to the pack's local house a little early, before the full moon gathering, and he'll blow off some steam and get right with nature or whatever it is that's got him so out of sorts.

Then, hopefully, by the time it's _actually_ the full moon, and every single one of his instincts is at fever pitch, Steve will have already spent a couple days expending as much energy as it takes to function at reasonable levels. 

Steve is over 400 years old. He doesn't lose control, and there's little chance of him doing something he'll regret. James is, however, the first supernatural creature he's gotten involved with physically that he’s really let loose with, and he didn't quite anticipate the spark of chemistry that would generate between them. Other werewolves can meet his level of strength and endurance, of course, but for the last century or so, Steve hasn’t really dated long-term at all, be it werewolf or human. Prior to that was Peggy for a century and while she lives a long, long life, she is mortal and breakable.

He’s always liked how direct in their desires humans are, though, and apparently, so are vampires. 

It's late by the time Steve gets home, already past 1 in the morning, but he's too wired to sleep. A cold shower helps a little to settle him, and he takes the time to pack a few things, though his room at the house is kept stocked and furnished. He'll head out early tomorrow.

In the end, he really only manages a nap, dozing off for a couple of hours, before finding himself wide awake at dawn. He gives up on sleep, picking up a greasy breakfast from the diner on the corner before heading out upstate. 

It's exactly the kind of day it feels like it should be to drive into the woods, overcast and cool and damp. It starts to rain barely half an hour into the drive, and the rhythm of raindrops on the car roof goes a long way to soothing some of his nervous energy.

He's about two hours into the drive when his phone chimes with a message. Normally, he'd ignore it until arriving at his destination, but the name that comes up is _James Barnes_. 

Well. He needs to fill up his gas tank anyway; he was only at half a tank when he left. 

Finding a gas station at the next exit, he pulls off the road, killing the engine as he slides in next to a gas pump. He flicks the screen open and feels a deep sense of satisfaction when he's greeted with a series of pictures. Each and every one is an artfully posted shot of James modeling the clothes that Steve bought him, delivered this morning to James's apartment. 

**Steve** : Well, isn't this a nice surprise. 

James doesn't respond textually. Instead, what comes next is another barrage of photos, this time of James slowly stripping out of the last outfit to reveal the lingerie beneath. 

Steve grips his phone tightly, unable to look away. 

**Steve** : I think this might be where the expression 'pretty as a picture' comes from.  
**James** : Just wanted you to see what you were missing out on with your little head games last night. 🤷🏻♂️  
**Steve** : What head games?  
**James** : You...took me out and then didn't ask for even a blowjob.  
**Steve** : That wasn't a game. I wanted to see you. I wanted to spoil you. That's what I wanted.

There are long minutes of no response. Steve sees James start typing multiple times, and eventually he sighs and tucks his phone into his pocket, busying himself with getting gas. Once he's filled up and paid, he gets back into his car and checks his phone, finally finding a reply. 

**James** : i'm supposed to believe you were satisfied with the pleasure of my company?

Steve blinks. While he has no context for James's true mood, or the emotion behind his message, he can't help imagine the bitter expression he thinks must be dominating James's expressive face. The undercurrent to these words is some kind of twisted self-loathing that Steve can't begin to unearth while he's sitting in his car at a gas station only a couple of days before full moon. 

**Steve** : I know you're a little prickly, but I had a good time.  
**Steve** : I was up front with you about what I enjoy, which includes doting on my boy and giving gifts. Of course I enjoy our physical relationship, but I don't expect you to put out every time I take you on a date. There's no transaction history. You don't "owe me" a blowjob for one (1) private gallery visit. 

Steve sits in his car, staring at his phone. This time, he doesn't even see evidence of James attempting to reply, despite the fact that his text is immediately read. 

After five minutes, he sighs and puts his phone away, starting the car and getting back on the road. 

Something sour settles into the pit of his stomach, a misunderstanding that has him analyzing every aspect of their interactions thus far. James isn't desperate for money, clearly. He does this because he likes it, and Steve assumed he would enjoy being spoiled, even without the element of sex. He _definitely_ didn't foresee their wires getting crossed, but he's kicking himself a little, because James was also _very_ clear about why he wanted a contract. 

In James's mind, it very much _is_ transactional, and if James isn't providing sex, he feels unmoored. Like Steve has unbalanced the scales and left James in some kind of unanticipated debt.

Truth be told, though Steve does very much enjoy spoiling whoever he's dating, enjoys creating those moments of pleasure and joy, he hasn’t dated anyone recently with whom the company was the higher priority than the physicality. He's also never reacted to anyone physically the way he has with James. It's a sort of paradox that the person he feels the most with sexually is the person he's also willing to forgo sex with for the simple pleasure of their company. 

So maybe Steve is changing the rules, altering their social contract. He _likes_ James though, despite all his prickles and sass. Hell, _because_ of them. He enjoys the way he catches the rare glimpse of something real, something genuine and soft. The effort it takes is satisfying and worthwhile, and it truly feels like maybe Steve is the only one who's ever earned it. 

It’s given him a taste for that fleeting burst of pleasure he gets when James drops his mask, and Steve wants to know more. He wants to find out if he _is_ the first and only person to take their time with James, to want more than what James has made available for a price.

As the rain patters gently against the roof of the car, dwindling into a fine mist, Steve spends the remainder of the drive puzzling over his feelings and motivations with regards to James. 

It's not exactly calming, and by the time he pulls up the long, winding blacktop drive to the pack's country estate, he's itching to leave behind the complexities of existing in human form. Riley steps out of the front door, smiling at him in that way that always makes Steve feel a little like he's being laughed at, but he can't help but smile back knowingly. 

"Steve," calls Riley. "Welcome. Sam's out back grilling up some brats for lunch. Come on in."

Steve grabs his bag from the passenger seat and closes the car door, sending Riley a sheepish grin as he hesitates on the front walk. 

"Can you save me some?" he asks. "I'll join you in a couple of hours, I just need to go for a run first."

Riley shrugs. "I'll make a plate for you. We'll probably be out back all afternoon unless it looks like it's going to start raining again."

"Thanks," says Steve. "I'll see you in a bit, promise."

"No worries. Take your time. I'll let Sam know." Riley disappears back inside, and Steve follows after, closing the door behind him and heading up to his room to drop his bag, first. He strips out of his clothes, folding them up on the end of his bed and then heading down to the side door naked. He can hear Riley and Sam out back, their voices and laughter carrying over the light wind blowing, and his mouth waters at the smell of grilling meat. It'll be good incentive. He props open the screen door, stepping out onto the damp grass and wriggling his bare toes in it. 

The shift ripples over him like a breaking wave, heat bursting down his spine. Relief shudders through his entire body, all the tension and anxiety he's been carrying melting away as he drops to all fours and shakes himself bodily. 

Every sense sharpens at once, his hearing zeroing in on Sam and Riley around the back of the house like they're standing right beside him, and he salivates at the rich, savoury scent of lunch. The birds are cacophonous from the surrounding press of thick trees, and Steve stretches luxuriously and then bounds into the woods with simple, rapturous joy. 

He can form complex thoughts as a wolf, but the intricacies of emotion are muted, so his spiraling thoughts from the drive melt away. The ground is cool and damp under the pads of his feet, a thousand interesting smells distracting him as he reacquaints himself with all his favorite paths and nooks and crannies, snuffling out a rotted log filled with mushrooms and a crystal clear stream trickling over tumbled mossy rocks. 

It does start to rain again, the canopy overheard pattering gently with the lazy droplets. 

By the time he's stretched his legs out and done several circuits of the property, he's too hungry to ignore, and he starts to make his way back to the house.

Sam greets him this time, pushing open the screen door for him, waiting patiently as Steve trots into the giant mud room designed for just this situation. 

Letting the door swing shut behind them, Sam crosses his arms and leans back against the wall. "Am I hosing you down or are you going to shift and shower like you're actually in control of your life right now?"

Steve shakes his big wolf head, snorting his opinions on that before reluctantly shifting back. He stands with a groan, stretching out and letting his bones pop back into alignment. "I'm in total control of my life, Sam."

"Signs point to no," says Sam as he shakes what is presumably an imaginary magic eight ball.

"You look like you're making the jerk off gesture." Steve steps under one of the three standing showers, pulling the cord to turn it on, a hot jet of water spraying out.

* * *

* * *

Sam rolls his eyes. "That works too. Same amount of useless self-satisfaction."

"In playing with a magic eight ball?"

"No, in fucking a vampire and pretending you're not catching feelings."

Steve pointedly turns his back on Sam and grabs some body wash, watching dirt swirl down the drain. There’s soil jammed under his fingernails. "You gonna stand here and heckle me while you watch me shower?"

"I have seen you naked a thousand times, Rogers," says Sam. "It doesn't even register anymore."

Steve huffs, lathering up his body and staring at the tile wall. "I'm not catching feelings."

"No? My bad, then. I thought that awkward conversation we had about supernatural sex exclusively featured your undead squeeze. You've never once talked to me about anyone you were fucking before."

"That had nothing to do with feelings," says Steve, keeping his voice as steady as possible. It’s true. Kind of. He really doesn’t tend to kiss and tell, even with Sam. There just hasn’t been a lot to tell in the time he’s known Sam. This past century has been—guarded. Sam’s right; Peggy was before his time, and Steve tends to mourn each past serious relationship for decades. Meeting James wasn’t exactly in the cards, and he’s not fully prepared to examine how he _feels_ about this level of investment. 

Sam arches his eyebrow. "It had everything do with how the sex was _so_ good you almost shifted."

"So? We are—extremely physically compatible," says Steve, trying to regain some equilibrium. 

Sam makes an unimpressed noise while Steve rinses off his body and rubs some shampoo into his scalp. "And showing up early to run around in the woods and blow off steam is unrelated too, I guess?"

"Sam," says Steve, pained. "I don't know _what_ this is. We've gone on a couple of dates, okay? That's all."

"A couple of dates," repeats Sam. "Dates, huh. Plural. As in, going out with the same person multiple times."

Steve rinses off the last of the soap and turns off the shower, padding over the opposite wall to grab a fresh towel. "Come on, Sam. It's not _that_ out of character."

Sam's quiet for a beat, as if weighing his response. Steve rubs soft terry cloth over his body, ridding himself of most of the moisture before he wraps the towel around his waist and turns back to Sam. "Well? Have you figured out your witty response?"

The corner of Sam's mouth ticks up and he shakes his head, stepping forward to clap his hand down on Steve's shoulder. "It's not out of _character_ but it's not your usual routine. I've known you my whole life, Steve." He gives Steve a squeeze. "Nothing scares you, you don't run away from a challenge, but I haven’t heard you talk about seeing someone regularly in a very, very long time. As in, Peggy was long gone before I even met you. I don't mean to put pressure on you, but it _is_ nice to see you express interest in someone again."

The words settle over Steve and he has to take a steadying breath. Sam has been his most trusted friend for the last century, and Steve is grateful to him every day. There's something almost hurtful about knowing that Sam noticed and worried about his lack of intimate companionship. 

It doesn't feel good to know that he—well, disappointed isn't the right word for it, but Steve definitely added to Sam's burden as his friend and one of the pack's leaders.

"I'm sorry I made you worry," he manages, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat. "I don't know where this relationship is going, but I’m—hopeful. It’s complicated, he’s—I think he’s been alone for a long time. For now, though, I really do just want to be with the pack, spend some time in the woods, hang out with you and Riley. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll quit being so hard on you," says Sam, giving Steve's shoulder another squeeze before letting go. "Get some clothes on and meet me in the kitchen. I put everything away once the rain started, but I made you a plate."

"Just one?" asks Steve with a crooked grin. 

"It's a very big plate," Sam laughs as he leaves the mudroom. 

Something loosens in Steve's chest. 

That wasn't exactly pleasant, but it's out of way for now. The thing is, even if Steve has sat up and taken notice of James in an uncharacteristic way, they haven’t agreed on this becoming more than a mutually beneficial casual relationship. James definitely doesn’t seem to be catching feelings, if his continued scorn for Steve is anything to go by. There's definitely more to him beneath the bitter exterior than he lets on, but he also tried to punish Steve for not having sex with him by baiting him with scandalous photos, so who knows what's going on in his head? 

Steve heads for his bedroom, changing into clean, comfortable clothes. A glance at his phone shows his last message has yet to receive a reply. He really didn't think it worthy of the digital cold shoulder he's receiving, but James is—difficult. Sam’s right. Steve does love a challenge. 

Sighing, he tucks his phone into his pocket and heads to the kitchen to meet Sam, who's leaning on the counter, sipping a beer.

"Riley's taking a nap," he says, when Steve enters. "And I put your food in the oven to warm up."

"Thanks," says Steve. "You didn't have to go to all the effort."

Sam shrugs. "You feel better?"

"Yeah, I'd say so," says Steve. "Still a bit of an itch under my skin, but that's probably just standard pre-moon jitters."

"Me too," says Sam. "I could go for a run later tonight, probably."

"It's a plan then." 

Sam sits with him while he eats, exchanging idle chatter about the pack, who's coming to the estate for the full moon and who can’t make it. After he’s eaten, Steve decides he could do with his own nap and heads up to his room. He checks his phone one last time before making up his mind to turn it off. Anyone that needs to get ahold of him in an emergency can just call the house phone or one of the other pack elders. 

Maybe what's best is if Steve gives himself a true break from stewing about James Barnes. 

That night, he runs for miles with Sam, both of them some of the largest wolves in the pack, both able to cover more ground than just about anyone else. It's freeing, to know he can go as hard as he wants and Sam will be right there at his side, keeping pace. They end up in the lake toward the end of the night, diving in to swim across on their way back, racing each other home.

It's more of the same as they get closer to the full moon. Sometimes Sam or Riley run with him, sometimes they don't. When the pack starts arriving for the full moon, though, he forces himself to put on clothes and wander out to the front drive to greet them all.

They trickle in at first; Tony and Pepper arriving in one of Tony's flashy cars, Scott's van audible several miles out as it rumbles up the road, and Wanda and Pietro wandering out of the woods like they're still the witch and werewolf version of Hansel and Gretel who simply showed up on the pack's doorstep in 1852 and never left. 

Pretty soon, it's arrival after arrival, hugs being doled out between them all and the volume of just under a hundred werewolves in one place reaching a happy roar. Steve ends up the designated piggyback giver, the packs' children flocking to him in droves.

While Steve entertains the kids in the yard, everyone else gets dinner ready. There's absolutely no way to cook for this many people in even the house's generously-sized kitchen, so everyone has arrived with dishes to serve in a potluck. As Steve dangles a child from each arm, he sees Sam and Riley helping bring out folding tables, while Scott, Tony, and Pepper carry out casserole dishes and plates. 

Once everyone has grabbed a plate, Steve does his rounds again, checking in on everyone and saying hello to any late arrivals. He eats in between conversations, the bustling presence of _pack_ like a burst of serotonin in his brain as he wanders through and basks in love and contentment and bone-deep satisfaction. There's nothing like having everyone in the same place. 

After he's devoured two full plates of food, Steve helps Tony start up the bonfire, and the crowd disperses a little as the evening stretches into night. 

The moon is rising, pale and yellow in the clear sky, and the pull is like a hook between Steve's ribs. Every bit of him itches under the skin, his wolf skin eager to burst free and surround him. 

There's no ritual to the full moon, not really, and as long as his pack is all in one place, Steve doesn't particularly care how they spend it. He usually needs to run, while some members prefer to take it easier, sticking closer to the house and curling up together to enjoy the warmth in the brisk autumn air. 

When he finally sheds his clothes and settles into the shift, his transformation is a profound relief, fur bursting through every patch of itchy human skin that he's felt too tight for days. He immediately lifts his muzzle and howls, the grass cool and damp under the sensitive pads of his feet, and dozens of familiar voices rise up to meet his, love and family soothing his wandering soul. 

Sam and Riley join him as he darts between the trees, chasing each other and nipping at each other's ankles as they run. He catches glimpses of familiar bodies: Pietro, Pepper, and Tony. 

It's hard not to get caught up in the joyous childishness of play, pouncing and tumbling and spinning in circles when he catches sight of his own tail, brimming with the pure, unadulterated joy of running with his pack under the light of the moon.

They end the night in various piles around the bonfire, rejoining the rest of the pack. Steve falls asleep with Sam to one side and Pietro and Wanda practically on top of him, at peace with the world under the night sky, smoke curling up from the dying fire. 

In the morning, some stick around for breakfast while others head out, obligations drawing them back to the real world. Steve finds himself digging his phone out of the bedside drawer and turning it on. It's not that he hasn't been thinking about James throughout the past 48 hours. It's more that James has settled into a part of his brain that feels less urgent. 

When the phone finishes it's powerup routine, Steve sees that there are 4 voicemails and 10 unread texts. He's not altogether surprised by this since he runs a business, but when he looks, he sees that 6 of the texts are from James.

He was hopeful that James would reach out while Steve was away, but he definitely wasn't expecting to find six text messages over two days, especially when they went unanswered. Curious, Steve opens up the message thread. Initially, James seems to ignore where their previous tense conversation left off, instead switching topics, the messages staggered over a few hours:

**James** : there's a gallery opening in chelsea this weekend.  
**James** : that means take me to it.  
**James** : ugh, fine. please, daddy, take me to the opening?

Then, clearly assuming that Steve is ghosting him intentionally after not receiving a response, his tone turns sour:

**James** : you know what? never mind. you claim you're not playing games but now you're not even responding to me.  
**James** : I'll get someone else to take me.

And, finally, the last message, which was sent at six o’clock this morning:

**James** : I've told you before, rogers, I don't need you, so if this is how it's going to be, then I'm over it.

Steve reads over the texts multiple times, sitting on the edge of his bed and considering carefully how to even begin replying to this. 

There's a lot going on, here. A jumbled mess of insecurity and need and hurt and humiliation, none of which was intentionally inflicted by Steve, but has occurred nonetheless. They've gone days without texting before, but Steve has never gone more than a couple of hours before replying to James, and that habit, as new as it is, was definitely internalized. 

He spends twenty minutes crafting a formal apology. 

**Steve** : I'm sorry, James. It was the full moon last night. I was unreachable because my phone was off while I spent time with my pack. I didn't mean to ignore you at all.  
**Steve** : I'd love to take you to the gallery, if there's still an opening for me. 

Oddly anxious, now, he grips his phone and stares at the screen, waiting for James to open and read his message. 

Even if James was the one to leave their conversation hanging the other day, maybe he probably should have sent a note to say he'd be gone for a couple of days. He just didn't anticipate that James would have such a strong reaction to this imagined slight, considering how desperate James has been to stress just how little he needs Steve.

Sighing, he checks his other texts and responds to various professional engagements, and checks his voicemails, none of which are from James. Of course, James would never be caught dead on the end of an audio message with his perceived humiliation recorded for posterity. 

Still, by the time Steve is fully caught up on the real world, James still hasn't read his text, and Steve has to face the reality that it's mid-morning, and James is likely asleep. He won't be replying until the evening, so Steve may as well get going on the drive home. 

As Steve packs up and says goodbye to Sam and Riley, he muses on whether this can even be salvaged. Something's gotta give, here. James came to him with a request for a date, which is a first. That's positive. He's being a brat about the context, but if Steve sufficiently apologizes and maybe sends him a gift to soothe his ruffled feathers.... 

He's just getting into his car when his phone lights up with a new text from James. 

**James** : did you all run around howling at the moon, then?  
**Steve** : basically yes  
**James** : charming.  
**Steve** : can I call you?  
**James** : no. I'm about to go to sleep. I have a facemask on.

Typically, Steve would accept this refusal gracefully. He's not in the habit of pushing where he's not wanted. Given recent events, however, he has a feeling this is some sort of test. He'll wheedle once and then let it go if James's protests don't collapse like a poorly built house of cards. 

**Steve** : you can't put it on speaker phone? I miss your voice, honey.  
**James** : ugh, fine, if you're going to be needy about it.  
**James** : give me ten minutes to get situated, at least.

Steve barely contains his sudden burst of laughter. He gets into his car and starts it up, fiddling with his phone to get the Bluetooth connected before he pulls out of the driveway. Then he waits exactly ten minutes before calling James.

"Hello," answers James. He sounds as if he's _trying_ to be aloof and unbothered in the aftermath of his very obvious hurt feelings.

"Hey there, beautiful," murmurs Steve, not averse to laying it on thick. "Looking forward to seeing you this weekend, if you'll still have me."

James hums as if he's weighing the pros and cons. Maybe he is, but Steve suspects he just thinks hesitation will irritate Steve. "Well, I did tentatively agree to let one of my other clients take me out, but...I'm sure if I apologize and reschedule, they won't be too put out. It wasn't a special event and I think Patrick will be there. I want to be on your arm for that kind of encounter. It’ll look better."

"Of course," answers Steve graciously. "Well, I certainly appreciate your flexibility. I'd like to keep you for the night, if that's possible."

"Keep me?" repeats James. "Well, well, aren't you presumptuous."

"If you have other plans for the latter half of the night, James, I can be graceful and accept defeat, but I figured I'd float the idea," murmurs Steve. "I would love the opportunity to make it up to you in a more private setting."

There's a brief pause. "Make _what_ up to me?"

Steve represses the urge to laugh again. James is absolutely his favorite kind of brat. He can _hear_ the sulk in his voice. "Two things," says Steve. "One, that I don't play mind games, and I always make my intentions clear. I'd like to keep you overnight, and I _won't_ be sleeping. Two, that I apologize for the misunderstanding in communication and I'm here to show you a good time."

"You can be charming, you know," James admits. 

Steve chuckles indulgently. "Did that hurt to say?"

"I'm wounded. You've wounded me. Are you driving?"

"On my way back to the city," explains Steve. 

"I did wonder where you went to run around. Jersey?"

"How dare you," Steve says mildly. "Upstate. We have a house."

James hums. All traces of sullen disagreeableness have left his voice, now, and Steve pictures him curled up in his bed like a purring cat that's forgotten being slighted ten minutes prior. "To howl at the moon."

Steve opens his mouth to argue and finds he has nothing to say. They _did_ run around and howl at the moon. "Technically," he grumbles, "we howl at each other, not the moon."

This earns him a laugh, musical and unabashed. "Oh yeah? I bet that's a sight to see."

"It's a very special night," agrees Steve, his voice giving away his fond affection. "It's a night for family."

James goes silent at that, and there's nothing in particular that would indicate that Steve just stepped in it again, but he can't shake the feeling. Clearing his throat, James says, "It sounds nice."

"Well,” Steve says at length. “I should let you get to sleep. I'll text you about plans for the weekend. Sweet dreams."

"Vampires don't dream," says James, and he doesn't sound angry, but Steve can't put his finger on the emotion behind his tone. "Goodbye, Steve."

Steve lets out a surprised breath as the line goes dead. 

Two steps forward, one step back.


	6. Bucky

_It's a night for family_. 

It’s a slap to the face, somehow, even though it has nothing to do with Bucky. Steve was incommunicado for the last two days spending time with his pack. His _family_. Apparently he does this once a month, for the full moon, and isn't that adorable?

Family. 

Bucky sets aside his phone and lies back in bed, scowling up at the ceiling. The tension and anxiety seeped out of him when he received Steve's texts, though the knot in his belly didn’t ease until Steve asked to call him, and the desperately humiliated part of Bucky that thought he'd been _ghosted_ was finally satisfied Steve was, in fact, telling the truth about why he'd dropped off the map. 

He is embarrassed to have even conducted himself as anything less than aloof. 

Now, knowing where Steve was leaves him with a different kind of hollow ache in his chest. Steve's pack is his family. Bucky doesn't know what that means; whether it's blood relatives, friends, a mix of both... All he knows is that Steve is over four centuries old, and the shape of his pack has probably changed a lot in that time, considering they arrived during the famine and there _were_ humans along with them. Bucky doesn't know a lot about werewolves, but he knows they're born, not made. 

Steve's probably seen his fair share of funerals in his life. 

Still. He probably still gets to see _some_ of his immediate family, so Bucky nurses his growing melancholy like a gardener with a blossoming flower, wallowing in self-pity. 

He didn't get a choice, and his family—mother, father, sisters—is gone. He checks in on his sister’s descendants once a year, from a suitable distance, because nothing excavates his grief like seeing Becca’s eyes in a completely different person.

It takes him a long time to drift into the dreamless, floating space where none of his emotions can touch him. 

Alpine curls against his back and purrs loudly and the white noise drags him under. It's a couple of days yet until the gallery opening Steve's promised to take him to, but Bucky needs to properly prepare. He’s off balance with Steve, and he hates that he's lost the upper hand several times over. He needs to regain it. 

Bucky needs to contact his hair stylist first. She's got a difficult schedule, but Bucky tips well and she loves him, so with at least a couple of days' notice, she can usually work him in. After that, he’ll book time at the spa: he needs a manicure and pedicure, facial, seaweed body wrap… Bucky will be soft and silky smooth and his hair will look like he stole it from Aphrodite herself.

He shoots off a text to Cindi, and while he waits for her to respond, he logs onto his Spoiled Spa account. He's browsing options when she gets back to him.

**Cindi** : I can do Saturday at 10AM. Don't be late!  
 **Bucky** : I would never.  
 **Cindi** : You would but I'll forgive you if you tip well enough. Otherwise, I'll chop all your hair off. :)  
 **Bucky** : D: D: D: I'll be on time and I'll tip!!!  
 **Cindi** : Thank you, see you then!

Bucky lets out a breath. She's a miracle worker but also a tyrant. He won't let anyone else touch a single hair on his head.

Once his hair is taken care of, Bucky books himself in for a spa session on Friday night. 

This way, Bucky will spend three hours in a perfect state of relaxation the evening before the date, go home to luxuriate for the rest of the night, lay out his outfit, maybe take a nap, and then head to his hair appointment with Cindi. He'll be home before noon, which is later than he's usually up, but he'll pin his hair, go to sleep, and wake up that evening to perfect curls. 

A quick shower before getting dressed, and he'll be in the best possible mindset to deal with Steve Rogers. 

If this doesn't work, Bucky has no idea what will. 

The date itself, after all, is straightforward. Another gallery opening, small-talk, drinks, selfies.... It should put a pin on his revenge against Patrick Keller. Going to Steve's for the night, though....

"Ugh!" groans Bucky, startling Alpine from where she's curled up on the bed near him. He reaches out to stroke her as she yowls at him. "Sorry, princess. I know, I know. He's awful, isn't he?"

He definitely needs to feed before Saturday, too, but Bucky has no clients booked, so he'll dig into his stash after his hair appointment and be done with it. 

There's not much else to really _do_ , until then. He needs to stop bumming around his apartment until it's time to go to the spa, but he hasn't got anything in his calendar to distract him. Bored and restless, he spends the rest of Thursday night alternating between Netflix and an extremely trashy romance novel, and he's just put on a mud mask the next morning in preparation for going to sleep when he gets a delivery. 

He's not expecting anything that he ordered, which means it's a gift, so Bucky goes to meet the courier, a bounce in his step. 

It's a substantial box, matte black, with no label on the outside. Removing the lid reveals a small gold card nestled on top of the folded tissue paper. 

_For tomorrow night.  
S._

A flicker of heat flares in the base of his belly. Bucky bites his lip and carefully lifts the tissue paper, letting out a deep, slow breath as the glimmer of something shiny reveals itself. 

_Several_ shiny things, actually.

Bucky considers himself something of an expert when it comes to shiny things, particularly shiny _jewelry_. He's got a variety of trinkets given to him by admirers over the years and quite a few pieces he's purchased for himself. So he recognizes immediately that this is from a Cartier collection. The necklace is a delicate gold chain that gleams in the light, just long enough that Bucky knows the sizable teardrop diamond pendant will hang just at the hollow of his throat. Matching earrings will dangle enticingly from his earlobes and the tennis bracelet is one of the finest he's ever seen. The set as a whole probably put Steve back a hundred thousand dollars.

That’s not all, though. He finds a velvet pouch beneath the jewelry. Inside, he finds a heavy, sizable plug, gold with intricate designs etched into the surface, like ivy that winds up to the base where several large diamonds sit. It's custom work, that much is obvious, and Bucky wouldn't be surprised if this cost nearly as much as the rest of it combined. 

His cock throbs in his pants, just looking at it all. This is a statement of ownership, of intention. Bucky likes it more than he should.

**Bucky** : so you DO know how to send an appropriate gift  
 **Steve** : you liked it, baby?  
 **Bucky** : Yes, very much  
 **Steve** : I’m glad. what do good boys say when they get a nice present?  
 **Bucky** : thank you, daddy.  
 **Steve** : you're very welcome. can't wait to see you wearing every bit of your present. 

Bucky bites his lip. He wants so badly to be immune to Steve's charms, to his sex appeal, to his _everything_. Every interaction proves that desire is impossible. Steve is a force in his life now and Bucky just needs to deal with that, prepare for it the only way he knows how. 

Which, speaking of preparation, it's time to leave for the spa soon. He won't have to think about this for several blissful hours.

He ends up taking more of a nap than going into any kind of restful sleep, lying in the dark and floating in the blissful, anxiety-free zone of nothing and nowhere. 

By the time his alarm goes off, he's _somewhat_ refreshed, and as he changes into loose sweats and a hoodie, he pauses by his dresser to admire his gifts. Considering he's trying to keep himself distracted _from_ Steve, it's a terrible idea, because he spends his short journey to the spa thinking of how he'll be adorned in a set of jewelry Steve chose specifically for him, accompanied by a gorgeous, semi-practical toy that he's expected to wear during the date portion of their night, in public, before going home with Steve to where he'll presumably act on, ahem, how _prepared_ Bucky is for him. 

Soon enough, though, he's checked in for his appointment, stepping into the cool, perfumed air of the spa, greeted by the hostess and ushered into his first room. 

It's not _entirely_ the works, considering the short notice, but it's everything Bucky needs to feel adequately ready for a whole night spent with Steve. 

He gets a massage, first, and the massage therapist spends sixty minutes working his body into a pliant putty and driving anything remotely resembling a worry out of his head. He's slow and syrupy when he emerges, blinking serenely as he's guided to his facial and seaweed wrap. 

Last, he's poured into a lounger to have his nails done, and Bucky floats in bliss while he's filed and buffed. To match the gifts he's been given, he has his nails done in gold, and Bucky leaves a healthy tip before he calls a cab to head home.

Bucky considers calling one of his more reliable clients for a quick fuck so he can have some fresh blood, but ultimately dismisses the idea. He’s relaxed and happy and he’d rather not worry about putting on a performance for anyone. Instead, he takes several units of blood out of the fridge and puts it in the warmer, watching closely for signs of coagulation. When it’s finished, he pours it into a glass with a metal straw because the sea turtles are important, even to a vampire. 

Usually he only supplements regular meals with the packaged stuff, but he can survive on it as his primary sustenance. It just doesn’t taste as good. 

He curls up in front of the TV and sips delicately at his meal while flipping through Netflix, then Disney+, then Amazon, until he finally puts on the Hamilton album and laments that he missed the whole affair by a measly few decades. He could have been written about in a musical. He would have been a _great_ character. 

The night thoroughly whiled away, Bucky takes a nap around seven and gets up with plenty of time to arrive at his appointment. Cindi _would_ punish him for tardiness, but he doubts she’d do that by cutting off all his hair. She loves it too much. 

“James,” she greets him, leaning in to exchange cheek kisses. “You look radiant.”

“Flatterer, you already know I’m going to pay you a ridiculous amount of money.” He laughs, following her to the back. “You’re looking glowy yourself.”

“I’d better. I think the face mask I used contains actual baby tears. It certainly cost enough.”

"You hardly need the help, darling," Bucky says, removing his coat and hanging it up.

"Now who's the flatterer? Sit. I know you love this part the most."

Bucky sits obediently, tipping his head back into the big sink to have his hair washed and conditioned. Cindi, thankfully, doesn't make him try to talk as he sinks into the fuzzy space his brain occupies as she massages shampoo into his scalp, so Bucky closes his eyes and enjoys the simple act of having his hair washed. 

Once the shampoo has been rinsed clean, Cindi applies conditioner to every inch of his hair, working it through with a comb and tucking it up over his head under a plastic cap. 

"You with me?" she asks, tapping him on the shoulder. "You need to get up and move to the dryer, honey."

Bucky sighs and drags himself up, giving Cindi a loopy little grin before resettling under the dryer and closing his eyes again. He floats for about half an hour, no thoughts, head empty, until Cindi retrieves him to rinse the conditioner out. 

"You're practically purring," says Cindi, turning off the tap and wrapping the towel around his shoulder as he sits up shakily. "Are you going to let me do anything dramatic today?"

"God, no," breathes Bucky. "I just need a trim. I've got a date tonight and I'm going to, you know..." He gestures at himself and then swirls his finger in the air, blinking owlishly at Cindi. "I'm going to do some loose curls."

Cindi laughs, but not meanly. At least, Bucky doesn't _think_ it's mean. He doesn't really know for sure. It's hard to tell when everything feels so nice, but also he doesn't care. Cindi nods along and says, "I could pin some curls in now and send you out with a headscarf until you're getting ready?"

"Oh would you?" he asks, feeling a great swell of affection. Cindi is the best. She's practically his best friend. That he pays to do his hair once a month. Sometimes twice, though. 

"Sure, honey," she says. Bucky hums and answers short yes or no questions as she works. Cindi's good like that, she knows not to make him think too much. 

Unlike certain werewolves.

"What's got you frowning so much?" asks Cindi, breaking their unspoken rule. "Gonna give yourself your first wrinkle in the twenty years I've known you."

Bucky pouts. "You take that back! And—nothing. It's just this guy I'm seeing tonight. It’s—complicated."

"That doesn't sound like your usual client." Cindi knows all about what he does. She doesn't judge, and in fact seems to enjoy the gossip. Another reason he likes her so much.

"Well, I guess he's not really a client at all," admits Bucky.

Cindi actually stops what she's doing to stare at him in the mirror. "Wait, so when you say you're going on a _date_ , you mean it’s an actual date?"

Bucky squirms, hunching his shoulders. "He doesn't pay me and there's no contract. So, yes."

"Wow," says Cindi. She gives herself a little shake and finishes pinning his hair up. "That's... Jamie, that's great. Wow. A date!"

"I've been on dates before," Bucky says defensively. It's not exactly true. For the last five years, he's only engaged in professional relationships, and before that.... Bucky didn't exactly _date_. Even prior to the website, he found ways to barter for what he really needed—a consistent food source—and never stuck to the same person for long. It could _loosely_ be described as dating, which is probably why Cindi is giving him such a cynical look. 

"Sure," she says, and it's patronizing, but Bucky isn't about to fight it. "Don't worry, I'll make your hair look perfect for you new beau, okay?"

Bucky lets the tension seep out of him, and the conversation naturally peters out into amicable silence. Cindi gives him his requested trim, tending to his split ends, and then pins his hair into curlers and sits him under the dryer again. Like promised, she wraps him up in a scarf so that integrity is maintained until tonight, and he tips Cindi 50%, gives her a kiss on the cheek, and calls himself a cab to get home. 

Maybe he shouldn't have told her. There's residual embarrassment clinging to him, and even though she's _right_ , her shock just highlighted how weird this whole situation is.

He _doesn't_ date. But Steve is giving him everything he wants and needs, and— 

More. All without following the rigid rules Bucky set up.

In general, Bucky stays away from other supernatural creatures. He doesn't seek them out or spend time with them. If his life depended on naming five supernatural beings in the entire country, he'd get stuck at three. Steve, his Maker—though he hasn't seen Pierce since a week after he was made, so who even knows where he is—and Carol, the witch he met a couple of decades ago and seems to know a little about everything. 

Sure, he's met other vampires, but it's been fleetingly rare, and he's intentionally pushed the memories from his head. One thing he has managed to pick up over the course of the last two centuries is that vampires put a lot of stock into lineage. Pierce is not well thought of, for reasons Bucky had never bothered to investigate, and so neither is Bucky. He barely knows Pierce and he isn't about to suffer any more because of him. 

Bucky doesn't have people, not any more, and he doesn't have a community. 

Steve, on the other hand, has a whole pack, a _family_ , and he seems connected to a wider network of the supernatural. And for some reason, he still wants Bucky.

It doesn't make a lot of sense and it definitely doesn't explain why Bucky is just going along with it, at every turn. Is he that pathetic? The first glimmer of something more and he snatches at it like Gollum tumbling into Mount Doom after the One Ring.

Well. Bucky has much better skin than Gollum, at least. 

He gets home just after noon, irritated to find himself slipping into a bit of a funk, despite all his carefully-laid plans to avoid dwelling on how Steve Rogers seems to be able to pull the rug out from under Bucky's feet with just a single text message. 

Bucky doesn't want to critically examine why that's the case. He refuses to acknowledge that the reason he's so off-balance is because this is the first time in decades anyone he's met has made him feel anything other than bland pleasure. The reminder that emotions can actually manifest more strongly is distinctly unpleasant. Bucky has let himself _settle_ , resigned to easy complacency. 

"Did you know," Bucky says to Alpine as he lets himself into his apartment, "That I've been coasting along on a wave of mediocrity for literal years?"

Alpine winds between his ankles and meows at him. 

"Saying that out loud was very difficult, don't yell at me," mutters Bucky, bending down to scoop her up into his arms. "Hold still, I need a hug."

Alpine tolerates being held for approximately 27 seconds, her eyes roving wildly as she searches for an escape route. While she loves attention on her terms, she immediately assumes the worst when it's foisted upon her. He doesn't want to examine too closely how much he has in common with his cat. Instead, he kisses her soft forehead and puts her down before she gets any bright ideas about using her claws on him. He'll heal, of course, but he didn't just spend nearly 24 hours preparing just to get scratched.

"Fine," he huffs. "Stare at me like I'm a criminal trying to turn you into a pair of comfortable mittens." He stares back at her and adds, "I bet you really would make very soft mittens."

She flicks her tail and bounds away to her cat tree, presumably to climb to the top and continue her vigil, just in case Bucky gets any more bright ideas about _cuddling_. 

Bucky rolls his eyes and sheds his jacket, wandering into the bathroom to check his curls. They're still secure, so he applies a refreshing mask for sleep and heads to bed, feeling very sorry for himself. As he passes, he sees the jewelry and plug laid out on his dresser, waiting for him to put them on—or in, as the case may be—and something warms inside his cold, still heart. Steve picked those out for him. Steve wants him to look pretty and feel special. 

On that note, he curls up in bed and drifts, hopeful for the first time in a long while.

Sleep heals the brain, and dreams help people process memories and traumas and everything that comes along with living. 

Perhaps, out of all supernatural creatures, vampires really are properly cursed. Cursed to live a nocturnal undead half-life, unable to really, truly sleep, and completely unable to dream, slipping through the night in bodies that heal wounds but can't ever recover the ability to breathe. Bucky's heart is dormant, literally and figuratively, so much so that any hint of activity tricks his body into thinking he's dying all over again. 

In the beginning, Bucky struggled with how any of it was even possible. He needs blood to live, yet his heart doesn't pump; his body is dead, yet his brain isn't. There was no one to guide him, no one to ask. 

Ultimately, none of it mattered. He's an undead, magical creature, and the mechanics make no logical sense. The sun hurts, but won't kill him, and he's desperately relieved that he can, in fact, use mirrors successfully. 

Even though Bucky will never experience true, healing sleep ever again, he opens his eyes later that afternoon feeling—refreshed. 

Most of his lingering melancholy has left him, and as he sits up slowly, he catalogs his state of mind. After all the horrible introspection of the last couple of days, he's apparently come out the other side eager to get ready for his date. 

He takes a very quick, lukewarm shower, covering his wrapped hair to protect the curls from any possible humidity, and then exfoliates and moisturizes his entire body. Only then does he unwrap his hair and remove the curlers, releasing each luxurious, bouncy, glossy curl one by one. 

There is _definitely_ life and body in one part of him, and it's true comedy that it's his hair. 

Still. He works his fingers through his locks very gently, finding it touchable and soft. 

Bucky takes his time perusing his closet. With his accessories already chosen, he wants an outfit that will pair well with the gold and diamonds to make them a subtle accent rather than a gaudy statement, while _also_ making them stand out. It's a fine line, but Bucky is up to the challenge.

The final look includes a pair of deep navy slacks, perfectly tailored, the material soft and the fit tight enough to call attention to his ass. He matches the pants with a gorgeous silk shirt. It's one of the items Steve bought for him with a subtle floral pattern of deep navies and greens and burgundies that will look dramatic against his pale skin and dark hair. 

Before he puts it all on, Bucky preps himself to push the plug into place, thrilled by the secret knowledge that only the two of them will know it's there all night long. When he wore one for his night out with Patrick, Patrick himself had no idea, and it was more to entertain himself than anything else. This is different. He wears a pair of delicate lacy panties in black and a lace underbust corset, for show more than function, underneath his clothes, before adding the accessories last. 

Just before Steve is due to arrive, Bucky looks in the mirror, tucking his hair behind his ear to admire the wink of the diamond.

Bucky is reluctantly forced to admit that Steve has excellent taste. 

It's one thing to receive a set like this and appreciate it in the box, but Steve took the time to visualize each piece on Bucky. He turns his wrist over, admiring the tennis bracelet under the lights of his vanity. 

He looks and feels expensive, perfectly prim and polished, without a hair out of place. He shifts in his chair, mostly to feel the weight and pressure of the plug inside him, and shivers at the faint ripple of arousal that shivers down his spine. It _is_ annoying that he's now looking forward to post-date more than the date itself, his priorities thoroughly scrambled by Steve. 

Bucky _knows_ he's shallow and petty. Who cares about revenge on Patrick? He's nothing. He's insignificant. 

His phone buzzes, alerting him to Steve’s arrival, and Bucky fizzes with anticipation as he rides the elevator down. When he steps onto the sidewalk where Steve is waiting by the car, Bucky lifts his chin knowingly. He wants to memorize the look on Steve’s face. 

It _is_ satisfying to see Steve's pupils dilate, to note the flare of his nostrils as he inhales the very understated cologne Bucky picked out, to observe the hungry way Steve's gaze rakes over his body from head to toe and then back again. Steve's eyes, normally the bright blue of a baking hot summer sky, flicker with warm amber. 

"James," he breathes appreciatively. "You look beautiful."

Bucky's fingers go to the pendent hanging around his throat, touching it gently as he smiles. "Thank you." He sweeps his gaze over Steve appreciatively, observing his charcoal slacks and deep navy dress shirt, open at the neck. He complements Bucky's color palette without even trying. "You look...acceptable."

That draws a laugh from Steve, eyes crinkling as he leans forward and brushes his lips to Bucky's cheek. "Thank you, honey. Glad I won't make you look bad tonight, though I doubt much could."

That pleases Bucky more than it should, preening as he fusses with his clutch. He will _not_ be ruining the lines of this outfit with a wallet bulge. "You're ridiculous."

"It's going to be a struggle to keep my hands to myself all night and not make a spectacle of us both," murmurs Steve, helping Bucky into the car and getting in alongside him.

"Well, you'd better figure it out. If I have to remain poised while having this plug inside of me, you have to keep it together too." Bucky smirks, loving the way Steve is looking at him. His stomach goes hot with want. 

"I'd suggest we skip the gallery altogether, but one of the artists gave me these tickets and I don't want to be rude by not even showing up."

"As if I'd allow you to rob me of my Instagramable moment," says Bucky, though if he's honest, he's a little disappointed it's not even an option. It’s funny, to be getting exactly what he wanted when he started this thing with Steve, only to now be wistful about the missed opportunity to skip his revenge and go straight to the sex. 

Bucky has always been achingly patient, devoted to the slow process of building an image and fortifying it until everyone that looks at him either wants to be him or wants to do him. If he's eager to skip that entirely, to not even be _seen_ after spending two days getting himself ready, who _is_ he?

"I'd never rob you of that, of course," says Steve. "Besides, we've got all night."

He's right, of course. Not that Bucky would agree with him out loud. And the evening _is_ pleasant. 

It's a beautiful gallery, the food and drinks are divine, Bucky gets several good shots to post, and he is introduced to a variety of big names in the art world. It's perfectly lovely. Late into the evening, Patrick finally arrives, and Bucky gets to watch his expression move through the five stages of grief when he spots Bucky on Steve’s arm. They don’t even speak to him. There’s no need, when he storms out less than a half hour after arriving. It’s perfect. Bucky is hardly bored. There's no itch under his skin, no low-grade bloom of arousal in his gut, no desperate desire to take Steve by the hand and demand to be taken home. 

But by the time they _do_ leave, well after midnight, Bucky is restless. He spent the last hour very aware of the weight of heavy designer metal inside him, each shift of his body lighting him up with little flares of heat. Steve keeps a hand at the small of his back whenever they walk around, so close to just sliding down and cupping his ass, giving him a rough squeeze, and Bucky is wild with restraint when they finally get into the back of their ride and he crawls directly into Steve's lap and sits down heavily. 

Steve bites off a grunt, his hands settling firmly on Bucky's hips. "Done playing games, James?"

The name, oddly enough, rubs him wrong, but Bucky moves past it, leaning in for a hard, biting kiss. "You try wearing this all night with infinite fucking patience."

"I thought you liked having things inside you."

"Sure, but when I know I could have your cock instead, it's an aggravation, not a delight."

Steve's hand slides around, taking the handful he's been teasing at all evening. He squeezes and Bucky lets out a sharp whine, wanton in his desires. "Steve!" 

"Hmm? What's the matter, baby? Aren't you having fun?" he teases, his other hand sliding through Bucky's long, soft hair, scritching over his scalp.

"Be having more fun if you stopped tormenting me." Bucky grabs at Steve's shoulders, rocking his hips down against him.

Steve's grip goes firm in his hair and he tips his head back, exposing Bucky's throat to his mouth. Bucky moans at the hot, slick slide of Steve's tongue against his skin. "See, now, I know that wasn't the truth. I’m figuring you out, James Barnes. You _like_ when I'm a little mean."

"That's absurd," groans Bucky, not bothering to pull away or stop Steve's exploration. "I spend all my time making sure I'm with men who dote on me."

"I do that, don't I? Get you pretty things..." Steve tugs gently on the gold necklace. "But I also don't give in to your every whim, and I think that you like that."

"That makes absolutely no plausible sense," grumbles Bucky, squirming as Steve's big hands roam over his body very carefully, being surprisingly mindful of his clothes and accessories. "I'd have to be very self-sabotaging to want that."

"Oh, I don't think so," says Steve, pressing a very soft kiss to Bucky's cheek. "It doesn't take much to see that you're bored of that. It's okay to want to be challenged."

Bucky grunts irritably, keen for Steve to continue touching him, but finding the accompanying psychological analysis a bit much, especially when it reinforces all the moping he's been doing. "You're centuries old, too," he says sullenly. "Are you trying to tell me you never get bored?"

"Sure I do," Steve murmurs, soothing Bucky's ruffled feathers with another soft kiss, this time to the lips. "And that's when I go out and find something new."

"A challenge?" Bucky bites back. "Is that what I am? A fun, difficult diversion?"

"You're many things," says Steve. "I've only scratched the surface. I'd like to find out more."

"Hmm," Bucky hums. "A little better." He slaps at Steve's hand where it's trying to creep _into_ his pants. "You are not undressing me in the back of this car. In fact, you're not undressing me at all. I want to wear these clothes again."

"I'm being delicate," protests Steve, nipping at Bucky's lower lip. 

Steve obeys, though, keeping his hands on the outside of Bucky's outfit, and Bucky manages to straighten himself up enough that when they arrive at Steve's building, Bucky only looks a little disheveled as he sidles out of the backseat and dusts himself off. 

"I mean it," murmurs Bucky as they head upstairs. "I'm undressing myself. You can watch."

Steve smiles serenely, leaning back against the elevator wall while the numbers tick by until the doors slide open on the penthouse level. "Sure, that sounds nice. Watch a little show, have a drink. You want some champagne?"

Bucky narrows his eyes, stepping out into the foyer. "Yes. I’ll show myself to your room."

"Don't get started without me!" 

"I'm just taking off my shoes and socks. That's hardly the sexy part of stripping." Bucky flounces away, not glancing back, but he can feel Steve watching. 

In Steve’s large, airy bedroom, Bucky sits on the bench at the end of the bed to remove said socks and shoes. He also takes off the necklace, bracelet, and earrings so they don’t get damaged. He's just pondering whether or not he wants to put his hair up when he hears footsteps and turns toward the door. Steve is carrying two glasses and an ice bucket with an opened bottle of champagne inside. 

Bucky clears his throat. "I was just wondering if I should put my hair up. It tends to get in the way of more vigorous activity, but—"

"Leave it down. I'll be careful with it," answers Steve, direct and to the point. 

Bucky hums, accepting a glass. "Thank you."

Steve pours one out for himself and holds it out. "Cheers."

"To being challenged," says Bucky, giving Steve a saccharine smile and clinking their glasses together. 

With a huffed laugh, Steve shakes his head and takes a sip, and Bucky follows suit, enjoying the crisp, clean taste as he takes a demur mouthful. 

Steve sits next to him on the bench, reaching out to tuck a bit of Bucky's hair behind his ear. "Did you get all pretty for me tonight?"

Heat floods Bucky's cheeks, a horrible consequence of his morning meal, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth and cuts his gaze away from Steve's piercing blue eyes. "I'm always pretty," he says pointedly. "But you gave me such kind gifts, I had to show an appropriate level of appreciation."

The corner of Steve's mouth twitches up. "You'd look good in a potato sack," says Steve. "Like I said before. But I don't want to let your efforts go unacknowledged, either."

"Well," says Bucky, with an exaggerated sniff. "Your observational skills have been noted."

Steve hums, apparently content to just stare at Bucky. 

Goosebumps rise on Bucky's arms, a phenomenon he doesn't experience often. "You look at me like you would eat me given half the chance."

Steve tips his head back for one of his big, loud laughs. "Don't you worry, at my worst, I've only been known to take down a deer or two with the pack on a Blood Moon. I'll keep the sharper teeth to myself."

"I wasn't _worried_ ," huffs Bucky. "I was just making an observation. You know, I have sharp teeth of my own. You seem to forget."

"I don't forget," replies Steve, expression settling into something more serious, which mollifies Bucky a little. "But I know you don’t bite without permission."

"Well, that's true, but you could at least acknowledge that I'm not helpless." Bucky takes another gulp of champagne and sets the glass down. He doesn't know why he's picking this fight when the night went so well. 

"The last thing I'd do is call you helpless, honey. Now, let's not be cross at each other. I think I was promised a show?"

It should irritate him _more_ , being so obviously managed, but he settles grudgingly. Steve is only echoing Bucky’s inner monologue. He doesn't agree or acknowledge it verbally, though, tipping his chin defiantly as he rises and turns his back to Steve. 

In this body, Bucky doesn't have to try very hard to be graceful. It's a natural, organic response to heightened senses and supernatural speed; even when he was first turned, the dexterity and strength took effect instantly, without conscious effort. After weeks on a decline, sick and weak, barely able to get out of bed, Bucky faded into the void one night and then snapped awake to a bright, loud, vivid world, suddenly able to accidentally punch through walls and leap up stairwells. 

Now, he tilts his head to the side, sweeping the soft mass of his hair over one shoulder as he deftly unbuttons his shirt and lets it slip down his shoulders to bare his arms and upper back. He doesn't try to make it sensual, but he knows that it is, just by virtue of how comfortable he is doing it. 

The shirt hits the floor, and Bucky turns, shimmying effortlessly out of his pants and kicking them aside. He looks at Steve through his lashes, pleased to find Steve fixated on him with rapt attention, pupils dilated and lips parted. When he notices Bucky peeking, he drains his glass, throat bobbing as he swallows, and sets his glass aside, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Aren't you pretty," he rumbles, voice hoarse. "In your lacy things."

Bucky shrugs, humming as he drops a knee back onto the bench and sets a hand on his cocked hips, knowing exactly what the line of his body looks like in this position. "There's something even better underneath," murmurs Bucky. 

"May I?" asks Steve, placing a hand low on Bucky's thigh and then sliding up to cradle his hip.

"You want to check?" teases Bucky, arching an eyebrow. "Fine. Be careful with the panties, though. You can't keep every pair I wear."

"I don't know, I've been meaning to pick up a new hobby." Steve chuckles, the sound warm as his fingertips dip beneath the elastic and skim across sensitive skin. 

"Over my dead body," huffs Bucky, angling himself to make it easier for Steve to work his panties off. He looks at Steve through his lashes and sees humor flash in his eyes. Bucky cuts him off before he can speak. "Say it, and the night is over."

Steve laughs again, leaning forward to kiss Bucky's lips. Bucky allows it, smothering a soft sound as Steve finds the base of the plug and gives it a hard tap. "All nice and open for me...you gonna let me pull this out and push inside of your needy little hole, honey? Fill you up till it's dripping out and then lick you clean?"

Bucky whines, filthy images tumbling through his head. "You're so nasty, daddy."

"And you love playing my sweet boy, even when I know you like it rough and dirty just as much as I do."

"On the contrary," Bucky says dryly, bracing a hand on Steve's shoulder and stepping out of the panties so that he can climb fully into his lap. " _I'm_ not an animal."

Steve doesn't take the bait, settling his hands on Bucky's hips and groping lower to squeeze Bucky's bare ass. "Oh, of course," he says, voice mild. "Pardon me. You like it rough and dirty all on your own, without my brutish influence."

"You have no influence on me, yes," agrees Bucky. He squirms in Steve's lap, naked but for the corset, while Steve remains fully dressed. The thrill of it settles in his hind-brain, acknowledgement of yielding to Steve in body, if not in words. 

It's completely manufactured fear. The idea that he's _prey_ is laughable, but he remembers feeling pinned under the lights and Steve's icy blue gaze in the dressing room, and wants to stoke that flame. It's not a game he ever gets to indulge in with his clients, none of whom remotely pose a threat to him. He knows that Steve isn't about to pin him down with his jaws clamped around Bucky's throat, but he _could_. They'd be evenly matched for a little while, but Steve is ultimately stronger. 

Bucky wouldn't win in a straight fight, but he's a very different kind of predator. 

"I never know what's going through that pretty head of yours," Steve says softly, lifting one hand to brush gently through Bucky's soft hair. 

"Nothing," says Bucky. "I'm waiting for the fun to begin."

Steve huffs, not believing him for a second, but he obliges by standing up, forcing Bucky to wrap his legs around Steve's waist as he steadies him in his arms.

"Feel like I'm carrying a wildcat, like at any moment you might decide you don't want your tummy rubbed after all and sink your claws in," mutters Steve, laying Bucky out on the bed. 

"Stop comparing me to a cat," complains Bucky, spreading his legs for Steve to take in the view, the glittering plug snug between his cheeks. 

Steve unbuckles his belt and opens his fly, shuffling to the edge of the bed, one knee braced on the mattress as he twists the base of the plug. "Look at that. What a pretty sight. Bear down for me, baby boy." With a smooth tug, the plug slides out, dragging a hiss from Bucky. 

It’s been a long night of public foreplay and neither of them have any patience left. Steve sets the plug aside and pushes between Bucky’s legs, guiding his cock into place. It catches on Bucky’s slick rim, a heavy weight, full of promise. Steve is always so warm, warmer even than the humans Bucky's been with. "Fuck, _please_."

"Please what? Hmm? Ask me for what you want," commands Steve, those piercing eyes flashing gold, sending a thrill of desire and fear bolting through Bucky. 

"Fuck me! Damnit, don't be tease, please _fuck me_."

"So demanding," murmurs Steve, effortlessly rolling his hips. His cock is hot like a brand, throbbing as Steve spears him open; he uses the momentum of his body to move Bucky up the bed, somehow crawling up fully to kneel over him without leaving Bucky's body at all. He stays snug inside him throughout the motion and Bucky stares up at him in dizzy shock.

"I'm not here for games," snarls Bucky, reaching up to brace himself on Steve's upper arms, digging his freshly-manicured nails into the fabric of Steve's suit jacket. 

"Of course you are," Steve says, hips moving now with lazy grace as he fucks into Bucky with deep, rolling strokes. "You love games. You spent hours getting ready. You built an outfit around my gifts. You played along beautifully. Why would you want me to rush the best part?"

This is horrible, Bucky decides. Why did Steve lay him down on his back? Why are they fucking face to face, with Steve blanketing him with his enormous body? Why are they locking eyes while Steve fills him up, hips slapping Bucky's ass in a steady, lewd rhythm, when Bucky could have rolled onto his stomach and taken it on his hands and knees? 

Now he has to see Steve's _expression_ , firm but fond, his eyes so _knowing_ , like he's got Bucky all figured out. 

"First you don't know what I'm thinking, then you think you know everything about me," he protests, embarrassed when his voice cracks.

It's just so good, his balls drawn up tight, his cock an aching, needy thing, his ass filled again and again with every firm stroke, every roll of Steve's body against his own. Steve is ready-made to take Bucky apart, to dig in under his skin. Something about the way it all feels is always just a shade too much, makes his lungs burn and his heart quiver, full of the closest thing to life he's experienced in literal centuries. He doesn't know what this is, how it's possible. 

Steve's hands are iron bands, holding him still, keeping Bucky in place for the fucking Bucky asked for. And all the while Steve's eyes burn, flickering with gold, lighting Bucky up just as surely as the way Steve's cock feels moving inside of him. 

"God, how do you—how do you do this?" Bucky tosses his head, wishing he could look away. 

Steve grins and Bucky swears his teeth look a little sharper. He's got one hand hooked around Bucky's thigh, keeping him in place while the other wraps around Bucky's throbbing cock, squeezing him tight. "Do what?" 

"Oh, you bastard," cries Bucky, whimpering as Steve slows his rhythm down, making Bucky _feel_ every inch dragging in and out of him.

"Hardly, I'm practically Irish royalty," quips Steve.

Bucky makes a frustrated sound, digging his nails into Steve's arms. He hopes he's leaving bruises. 

It's not fair. Why is Steve always so steady and calm? Why is Bucky the one always thrown off balance? He's not accustomed to being anything other than completely in control at all times, even when he's under a client. 

But Steve's not a client at all, is he. 

Bucky’s mouth falls open, and he tips his head to the side to avoid Steve's eyes, the heat in his expression. It's a struggle not to squirm, to writhe and thrash in the hopes of spurning him into a faster pace, heat pooling in his cheeks and down his chest, belly tensed each time Steve rocks into him leisurely. It's torturous, slow and perfectly targeted, pleasure building deep within the core of him, while Steve plays with his dick. 

It is not enough for him to come, trapped as he is, impaled and restrained. 

Horrifyingly, tears prick at his eyes. "Please," he says. "I asked you not to tease."

"Please, what?" Steve echoes again, leaning to brush a kiss to the apple of Bucky's cheek, before his tongue flicks out to— 

To lap up Bucky's tears. 

It's like a slap to the face, arousal zinging through him, and the tears well and spill over, Bucky staring up at Steve in shock. "Daddy," he whispers. " _Please_."

Steve rumbles, _growls_ in Bucky's ear, catches his mouth in a kiss that's sharp and hungry and consuming, and Bucky yields, lets Steve take what he wants. He sobs into Steve's mouth as he starts moving faster again, harder, giving Bucky the jarring thrusts he needs, rough and dirty—just like Steve said.

And with a hoarse shout, Bucky comes.


	7. Steve

The change ripples beneath Steve’s skin and his fangs drop just before he comes, his knot blowing as James's body clenches up tight around him. 

Thankfully, Steve has the wherewithal to pull back a little, releasing James's spent dick and tightening his grip around the base of his own, resisting the strong urge to push inside without warning. James may not even know this is something werewolves do—despite his copious amount of dog jokes—and Steve would rather have a conversation about it before he’s locked balls deep inside of him.

James loosens the bruising grip he has on Steve's forearm, dropping his hands to either side of his head, framing his pretty face and the halo of hair spread out around him. Steve is dizzy as his cock pulses, fills James up to drip out around him. He rests his forehead against James's collarbone and just breathes through the flood of pleasure.

His knot will go down faster without a warm body wrapped around it, keeping him stimulated, and so he gives himself one last rough squeeze before getting to the work he promised. He rises up and slips out of James's body, flipping him over onto his belly, his weight easy to maneuver. "Hands and knees, baby. Time for dessert."

James, clearly dazed, obeys with a whimper, pulling his knees underneath his body and propping himself up on shaky limbs. Steve spreads his cheeks, admiring the mess dribbling from his reddened, swollen hole.

He's briefly transfixed, thumb catching at his sloppy rim, drawing muffled little whines out of James as he buries his face in the rumpled bedclothes.

Even then, though, Steve expects James to snap at him to get going, but he seems well and truly under. He's shivering a little, legs spread, but he doesn't string together any criticisms. He _does_ wail when Steve licks a hot, wet stripe from James's balls right up to his twitching hole, and he jerks sharply when Steve closes his mouth over it, teasing little jabs with his tongue. 

He's been tense all night, as though he's been waiting for something that hasn't come, and only now has that underlying stress seemingly faded away. He's a limp, loose mess, face-down on the bed, thighs trembling as Steve delves deeper, licking inside him and greedily devouring his own release. 

Steve loses himself to it, dutifully going to town on eating James out as though it's his job, lips sealed over James's quivering hole, hands braced against the backs of his thighs to help him keep his hips up. James is stifling his groans, body jerking with each deep plunge of Steve's tongue; he tenses up helplessly and then slumps again with a sharp cry, and Steve thinks maybe he just came again. 

He withdraws, licking up the last of the mess and making an exaggerated smacking sound. 

James collapses fully onto his belly, completely still, and it _is_ odd, how he doesn't pant with exertion like any other partner would. Instead, after a moment, he rolls himself over, shoving his hair out of his face to scowl petulantly at Steve. "You are _disgusting_."

"Did you or did you not come again just now?" asks Steve, unbothered. He likes the way a flush rises to James's cheeks. An unfamiliar bolt of jealousy rises up inside of him, wondering at who James fed from to give him that color. He cups the side of James's face, thumbing over his cheek where blackened tear tracks still mark his skin. The word bubbles up without his permission, "Hungry?"

James blinks. "What?"

"Well, I was just wondering when you last ate. That was a lot."

There's a frown now, less of a pout, as if James is confused by this line of questioning. "If you must know, I had some of the blood I keep on hand when there isn't a fresh source. I only need to eat once every couple of days. Why? Are you offering?"

"I am if you're hungry," Steve replies steadily. "It's only round one, but you look a little wrecked, sweetheart."

James's wary confusion immediately collapses into full-blow contempt. "You smug asshole," he growls, sitting up. He reaches for the collar of Steve's shirt and drags him closer. "Are you mocking me, Rogers? I seem to recall you saying you wouldn't let me feed on you. That it was _off-limits_."

Ah. Of course that offended him. 

"I said you couldn't have blanket access to my blood, as your contract normally stipulates," Steve says mildly. "For a variety of reasons. I also said we'd discuss it if it came up. So, it came up. We're discussing it."

James purses his plush lips, gaze darting down to settle on Steve's throat. "I don't need any. I ate today. I didn't think you'd like me hungry."

Steve takes a moment to consider what James _would_ be like if he were hungry. He's already so testy and petulant. Then again, the spankings he would earn might make it worth it... "Next time, ask. I'll let you know. In the meantime, do you _want_ to feed?"

Tipping his head speculatively to the side, Steve waits as James seems to stew. Then, a look of almost self-consciousness flashes across his face, and he glances at Steve, his eyes very suddenly gone ice blue, glowing in the dim bedroom. "If you're sure?"

Steve's heart hammers, something instinctual teasing at triggering his fight or flight response, but he holds still, resisting the urge to flash his own eyes in return. "Yes, I'm sure."

James licks his lips and then tucks himself closer, mouth opening to reveal very sharp canines. He draws his teeth up the column of Steve's throat until he settles over Steve's jumping pulse and, like a knife through warm butter, his teeth find purchase. It's expertly done. Steve barely even feels it.

Just a brief, glancing pin-prick, twin needles, before the barest hint of pain vanishes.

James's lips close over, like he's worrying a bruise on Steve's throat, and the pressure increases; the pull of his mouth is strong, a warm, blooming rush of pleasure that bursts in Steve's gut. James pushes fully into Steve's lap, settling down on top of him and wrapping his arms around Steve, clinging to him, a needy barnacle. Steve wraps him up securely, a hand on James's back, and tips his head to give him more room. 

And, oh, he understands why humans like this, would happily give it up without a second thought as part of an exchange of services. It feels _good_ , the hot tug of arousal building back up inside Steve as he holds James in his arms and lets him drink his fill. 

The rhythm of it is a lot like sex, regular pumps of blood in tune with Steve's heart, and Steve pictures James sat more firmly in his lap, positioned on his cock, no, his _knot_ while he feeds, and Steve clutches tightly at James and lets out a shocked growl. 

Then, just as suddenly, James shudders in his arms and releases him.

Steve takes a moment to breathe and reorient himself, but when he focuses on James again, he sees that he is beginning to cry in earnest. Not the sweet tears of a good hard fuck, but sobs that rapidly shift from silent, breath-like shudders into cries of overwhelmed distress. 

"James?" says Steve. "James, are you—is something wrong? Are you okay?"

"No!" James hits Steve with a fierce scowl and it takes everything in him not to laugh at the absurdity of his expression in the face of James's waterworks. 

"No? Did my blood—is there something wrong with—"

"No,” groans James, scrubbing at his eyes. “I'm _fine_ , but I'm not—James isn't my name! Stop calling me that."

Steve hesitates, confused. 

James is clearly shaken, audibly swallowing back sobs. He turns his head away from Steve to hide his bloodshot eyes and flushed face, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. There's a little smear of Steve's blood on his skin. He offers up no further explanation. 

"Jamie, then?" Steve asks, after a moment. "I'm sorry, I—"

"No," spits James, interrupting himself with a ragged, hiccuping sob. The expression on his face, when Steve reaches out to cup his jaw and turn him back to face him, is one of abject humiliation. 

"What, then?"

"I'm sick of hearing it," James says, his eyes going wide. He drops his hand and bares his teeth, those wicked fangs still present. "I'm _sick_ of it."

"Then let me correct it," says Steve. 

"You can't laugh."

"I won't."

"It was a nickname. I just prefer it."

Steve resists the urge to smile at these obvious theatrics. "You should get to choose that, then."

"It's Bucky." He shrugs, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. His face crumples again, eyebrows furrowed, and it's the most honest expression Steve has seen on his face since they met. True sorrow. "Don't ask."

"I won't," agrees Steve, thumb sliding along James's—Bucky's jaw, tipping his face up so Steve can look at his pretty eyes. "I won't ask, but you can always tell. You can tell me anything, Bucky, but only what you want, what you're ready to tell."

Bucky's face twists as another sob hiccups out of him, but he nods and lets Steve lean into his space and kiss his wet mouth. It's chaste at first, that pillowy softness pressed to Steve's lips, but that changes as Bucky sighs into it. 

Steve makes a curious noise, a quiet inquisition, and when Bucky pushes insistently into his arms, Steve deepens the kiss. He licks away the taste of his own coppery blood and the salt of Bucky's tears. His fingers push into Bucky's thick, riotous hair and hold him still for all the kissing Steve suddenly needs to do. There's something there, something new and fragile and precious between them, and it's the blood and the tears and the sweat, but it's also a name that maybe hasn't been spoken out loud in decades. Centuries, even. 

The kisses don't turn heated, only passionate, Steve eager for closeness and Bucky reciprocating that need. Eventually, they break apart, Steve panting, if only a little. 

"I think," says Bucky, clearing his throat. He lifts his chin defiantly and glances around before looking back at Steve. He's replaced his haughty mask and Steve is unbearably fond. "That you should take me to the bath and clean me up."

"Well, if that's what you think, then that's what I'll do," says Steve. Bucky has made himself so small, and he's easy to gather up, Steve sweeping him into his arms and against his chest. 

Bucky doesn't even resist, seemingly content to be carried. He wraps his arms around Steve's neck and pillows his head against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as Steve lifts him out of bed to the ensuite bathroom. They're both quiet as Steve sets Bucky gently down on the edge of the whirlpool bath, Bucky bracing his hands on the edge to lean back and watch while Steve runs the water and starts to undress. 

There's more color to his cheeks than Steve's ever seen before, the tip of his nose pink from crying. Sitting naked on the edge of the tub, unself-conscious and expectant, with his dark mass of loosely curled hair, he looks like the subject of a baroque painting. 

"You're looking very—" Steve hesitates, unsure how to phrase it without causing offense. He cocks his head and finishes unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it into the hamper without looking. 

Bucky widens his eyes, pale blue under the bathroom lights. "Alive?" he suggests, an edge to his voice. "Un-undead? Do I look like I have a pulse?"

"You said you'd already eaten," Steve points out. "I guess I wasn't expecting it to make such a difference."

"Neither was I," admits Bucky archly. "I don't think it'll do your ego any good to admit that there is a—substantial difference in, lets say, quality."

"Oh?" says Steve, arching an eyebrow as he steps out of his pants.

“I wouldn’t carry on about it,” sniffs Bucky, rolling his shoulders, a graceful movement that draws Steve’s attention to the line of his collarbone, the shadows cast there under the lights of the bathroom. 

“You’re beautiful,” blurts Steve. He feels clumsy and oversized, overcome by memories of first love like he’s a young boy in Ireland again, reliving that first shock of helpless attraction. There’s an itch in his fingers that he hasn’t felt in a long time. “I’m sure you’ve been drawn a million times over. Captured in every possible medium.”

Bucky’s cheeks remain a vivid pink, but he arches an eyebrow at Steve. “Are you asking to see the works or to add to the oeuvre?”

Steve steps into the filled tub, now completely nude, reaching for Bucky after he sinks into the hot, fragrant water. Bucky comes easily, settling down in his lap. He pats Steve’s shoulder. “Well?”

“Well,” begins Steve. “Both, if you’d allow it.”

A pleased, pretty smile spreads over Bucky’s face. He shrugs. “Oh, I suppose.”

The way Bucky seems to light up at being the focus of someone's attention gives Steve the distinct impression that his vanity stems from a very vulnerable place inside him. He is insecure not at all in how he looks, which would be utterly absurd, but in how he sees himself in the world. 

The revelation stuns him a little. Steve sits with his discovery, heart fluttering against his ribs, thinking of a boy that died young, frozen in his youth, moving through time alone. It's becoming more and more clear to him, how Bucky has separated himself from the world around him, keeping strict boundaries between his personal life and the spectacle he makes of his professional entanglements. 

He is sure, now, if he even suggests that Bucky might be lonely, he will be soundly rebuffed, so instead he just pulls him in to be held, pressing his lips to Bucky's temple. "I'll set something up," he murmurs. "If you'll sit for a portrait."

Bucky makes a dismissive noise, as expected. "I'll check my calendar," he says loftily, slowly rebuilding the wall that briefly crumbled between them. "See if I can fit you in."

“Of course, I’ll be sure to schedule something well in advance.” He doesn’t try to hide his amusement and Bucky doesn’t immediately prickle at it either. 

Instead, he leans in. “I feel as though I should try to capture as much of your schedule as you’ll allow, moving forward. I hate the idea of going too long between visits.”

Bucky has twisted his hair up on top of his head while he lets himself be held, forming a softly coiled knot atop it, gentle whisps escaping and sticking to his damp neck. The perfect picture of a winsome Victorian gentleman. “Hmmm.” He pretends to consider Steve’s proposal, tipping his head to the side as Steve allows himself the indulgence of sucking kisses to Bucky’s blood-warm skin. 

Between Steve’s blood and the hot water, Bucky feels more alive against him, and if Steve concentrates closely, he senses—an almost rhythmic thrum. It’s not a _pulse_ , per se, not the _lub dub, lub dub_ of a heart beat, but more like the resonant waves of energy Steve associates with electricity—or magic. 

“Honey,” he weedles. “Don’t you miss me when I’m not around?”

"Miss you?" murmurs Bucky loftily. "Does a rational person miss a toothache or a persistent pain when it finally fades?" 

It's precisely the kind of comment Steve was expecting. He cradles Bucky's long, delicate throat in his hand, nosing at the juncture between neck and shoulder and huffing his laugh against his skin. "Now, that's just mean, Buck."

For a brief, split second, Bucky tenses. He makes a small sound, seemingly involuntary, and then lets his hair fall back to his damp shoulders in a cascade of loose curls, rising up to brace both hands on Steve's shoulders. "Are you hard?" he demands. 

Steve blinks at him. "Excuse me?"

"I want to sit on your dick," says Bucky. "Are you hard?"

"You're going to make a point, aren't you," Steve says dryly. He reaches down to grip his cock, giving himself some cursory strokes. It doesn't take much for him to get ready, especially with Bucky kneeling up expectantly, an imperious eyebrow cocked as he waits to be satisfied. "You're going to say that you only miss one thing about me when I'm not around, and that thing is my—"

Bucky clicks his tongue, maneuvering his hips down, until Steve's breath catches the moment the head of his cock nudges at Bucky's loosened rim.

“You seem to know me so well already,” says Bucky, rocking down to take half of Steve cock in one go. He hisses, eyes flashing blue. “I’m sure you’ll figure out what the point is without me stating it out loud.”

He rises up and sinks back down again, just enough slick to take Steve deep, the bath oils easing the way. The friction is hot and delicious, though, and Steve groans at the pressure of Bucky squeezing tight around him. The base of his cock is still sensitive and a little puffy from blowing his knot earlier, and Bucky must register the sensation as he rolls his hips, mouth dropping open as he clenches around a thick girth that wasn’t there before. 

Bucky blinks lust-blown eyes, a curious sound hitching out of him. “What _is_ that?”

Steve bites back a grunt. “My knot, honey. Couldn’t help it popping, ah—popping last time. You’re just so pretty. So gorgeous, taking my cock.” Steve’s rambling and he knows it, but even the tease of having his knot inside of Bucky, full and heavy, is crossing wires in his brain.

"You can't be serious," says Bucky, even as he tightens his grip on Steve's shoulders and rolls his hips, taking Steve into his body smoothly, as demanding as can be. "You have a—"

Steve groans quietly, closing his eyes in bliss at the hot, tight clutch of Bucky's body, as Bucky settles into a rhythm, riding him, pleasuring himself on Steve's cock. "I do."

"So this is just—" Bucky's voice is thick as he quickens his pace. "Residual....?"

"Yeah," breathes Steve. "You wouldn’t be able to move like this if it blew inside you."

"What the fuck," whispers Bucky. When Steve manages to drag his eyes open again, he finds Bucky's irises have maintained that cool, icy blue, and there's a hint of his fangs dropping behind his lips. His own pretty, slim dick curves up against his abdomen, flushed with arousal. "Why didn't you, then?"

Steve frowns at him. "Why didn't I what?" 

"Put it inside me," says Bucky. His expression is intense, that ethereal electric blue fixed unerringly on Steve's face. He's magnetic. "I didn't even notice."

“I—“ Steve swallows, mouth falling open, breath quickened by Bucky’s reaction, aroused by this conversation, addicted to the ideas running through his head. He grips Bucky’s hips, digging in, leaving marks. “I didn’t ask permission first. It doesn’t just—happen. It stays, for a while. We’ll be—locked together, my knot stays—inside of you. So I held it back.”

“Oh my god,” groans Bucky. “Oh fuck, I take it back. I will state the point out loud: your cock is fucking perfect. I miss it every day that it’s not inside of me.”

He flutters around Steve, rippling with every slam of his hips, hands braced against Steve’s shoulders to angle his body for his own rising pleasure. It’s beautiful and wanton, showcasing Bucky for the greedy hedonist he is. Steve loves it. 

He loves what a vicious, insecure, lonely, haughty, ice queen Bucky is, and he drags him forward for a rough kiss. “Gonna take it now, baby? Gonna take my knot?”

Bucky whines, shuddering in Steve’s grip. “Yeah, yeah—oh, daddy, give it to me. Make me take it, make me—”

Steve yanks Bucky down firmly onto his cock as he thrusts up and blows his knot with a growl, holding Bucky pinned as pulse after pulse of come fills him up again. Bucky cries out and tosses his head, grinding down, _squeezing_ around Steve until he comes. 

" _Oh_ , fuck," cries Bucky, his eyes wide, mouth falling open on a lewd moan. Steve catches him by the chin, fitting his thumb into the sweet little dimple, pushing past Bucky's swollen lips to delve into his red, wet mouth. So wanton, so devoted to taking his pleasure.... 

Is this the only way he connects to people? Anchors himself in reality? 

"How's that feel?" rumbles Steve, hooking his other arm around Bucky's waist. He's sitting firmly on Steve's lap now, stuffed up snug with Steve's swollen knot, and the electricity has finally faded from his eyes, leaving him glassy and dazed. He tenses around his cock, groaning, and his head lolls back, eyelids fluttering. 

"I refuse—to stoke your ego again," Bucky says, voice thick with pleasure, grinding his hips shallowly down. Even that movement tugs sharply on his rim where Steve is locked inside him, and he makes a wounded noise. "Oh, _fuck_ ", he repeats. 

"Told you," Steve says mildly, nipping a kiss at the corner of Bucky's mouth. "You're stuck here for a while. Now I've got you, my pretty."

“And my little cat too?” mutters Bucky, a dreamy quality to his voice. 

Steve wasn’t aware Bucky had a cat, but the purposeful misquoting of the line seems to be revelatory. It’s another small personal detail Bucky has let slip and Steve can’t help but hoard the information. “What’s your cat’s name?”

“Alpine,” sighs Bucky. He blinks, a frown gathering between his brows. “I’ve never told anyone about her before. Patrick saw me taking her to the vet, after he ended our arrangement. It was awful.”

“I’d like to meet her one day.”

“She doesn’t like dogs,” says Bucky, still sleepy, tipping his head to the side to rest it on Steve’s shoulder and gaze up at him. “But I guess you’re not really a dog.”

It’s the first time Bucky has ever backed off from one of his many dog jokes. Steve’s never been bothered, at least not from Bucky, who likes to rile him up for the sake of it, but the change is surprising. “No, I’m not. Cats don’t seem to mind my presence, as long as I don’t look like a wolf when I meet one.”

Bucky hums. His eyes drift shut, body rippling around Steve’s knot. Steve relaxes in the water, holding Bucky close. He wants to keep Bucky, keep him close and safe, but he doesn’t think Bucky would ever allow such treatment. 

Steve enjoys it as long as he can, Bucky seemingly content to just sit quietly while Steve’s knot has him so thoroughly filled. It’s not until it goes down and finally slips free that Bucky lifts his head again. 

“The water is getting cold,” he points out. “Finish cleaning me up and take me to bed.”

Steve doesn’t argue with the gentle command. He reaches for the artisan soap he picked up at a farmer’s market and begins to lather up Bucky’s lax body. Once he’s rinsed clean, Steve hesitates at the prospect of touching Bucky’s hair, the ends damp and heavy from the bathwater.

"Don't you dare," Bucky says, gathering the ends up and twisting them into another bun. "While I'm sure that handmade soap is very nice, if you try and apply it to my hair, I'll bite you."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" teases Steve. 

"Both," Bucky says primly. "My hair is just fine like this, thank you."

Steve leans in to kiss him, marveling at how Bucky softens for him, eyes slipping shut, swaying into Steve. It's another sweet, remarkably vulnerable gesture, and Steve hoards and treasures each and every one. 

They finish up lazily, Steve rinsing them both clean and draining the big tub. Bucky rises to his feet, but Steve helps him out of the tub, drying him off with a fresh towel and wrapping him up in a robe. Before Bucky can make another demand or complaint, Steve scoops him right into his arms and carries him back to bed. 

"You _are_ the little cat, I think," he says mildly, gently setting Bucky down in the mound of pillows and brushing his hair out of his face. 

"Oh, stop," he mumbles, rolling his eyes. "You think you're so funny."

Steve climbs onto the bed alongside him, wrapping Bucky up in his arms. If he's going to allow this, allow Steve to cuddle and dote on him, then Steve will take judicious advantage of the opportunity. Whatever mood Bucky's in, clingy and affectionate, Steve feels protective of this new, fragile aspect of his personality. The last thing he wants to do is accidentally slam the door shut between them. He tucks his face into Bucky's neck, breathing him in and sighing deeply. 

"You're so annoying," Bucky says quietly. 

"So you keep saying. What did I do this time?"

"I will never repeat this," says Bucky. "But you've been very charming."

"Oh, I see," says Steve. "So this was more of a complaint about not having anything to complain about." He smiles against Bucky's skin, content to have him in his arms.

Bucky makes a tutting sound. "I always have something to complain about. It's a talent."

"Oh, certainly." Steve isn't going to take the bait. "One of many, though. I have found you very charming tonight, as well."

"Just tonight?" There's none of Bucky's usual irritation behind the words. It almost sounds—light. _Teasing_ , even.

"Mmm, and every night since I met you," agrees Steve, knowing his duty. After all, it is the truth. Bucky has been thoroughly charming, has drawn Steve in and captured his imagination and his desire. 

Bucky makes a happy noise, his eyes drifting shut. "That's better." 

"Are we sleeping now?" asks Steve.

"Yes, be quiet." There's a lingering pause. "Vampires don't really sleep. We don't dream. We—well, truth be told, I guess I'm not really sure what other vampires do. I, however, drift. It's a sort of meditation."

"Then you can drift with me while I sleep," replies Steve, accepting this new revelation and taking it in stride.

"Only if you're _quiet_."

Steve props himself up over Bucky, miming the action of zipping his lips, then reaches over to turn off the light. 

He's sure that, like him, Bucky can see in the dark, but Steve just cuddles back in behind Bucky, spooning him securely, and settles down into stillness. 

Sleep doesn't come readily, or easily, his thoughts swirling restlessly. Bucky is completely motionless, and Steve never really realized how much he relies on the simple comfort of hearing a partner breathe next to him. With Bucky, there's no rise and fall of his chest, and while Steve would never describe Bucky as corpse-like in any way, for someone that relies on their senses as much as Steve does, it's a little unnerving. 

Still. Bucky is warm, and he smells like Steve's fancy soap, and Steve gladly burrows closer, tucking his nose against the nape of Bucky's neck. 

Eventually, Steve does slip into sleep. 

Bucky doesn't otherwise stir all night, and it's Steve who filters back into awareness first, in the pre-dawn, when he'd normally be getting up to run. He closed all the blinds and curtains before they even came back to the apartment last night, so there's no rush to beat the sunrise.

He's determined that Bucky does operate on nocturnal hours, disappearing from contact between 10 AM and 4 PM each day, though sometimes he's up later and "sleeps" in. While vampires can cover their skin and operate in sunlight, he imagines the risk is too great to bother with. Sunlight can't kill a vampire, but it does burn and maim skin, if left unprotected for too long. 

"You're thinking _very_ loudly," Bucky murmurs, his body unrolling in one great big leisurely stretch.

"I know you don't _need_ breakfast, but what if I made it for you anyway?" Steve tucks a piece of hair behind Bucky's ear. "What are your feelings on maple syrup?"

"My family owned a maple tree farm upstate," says Bucky. "It's where all our money came from. Well, technically, I guess one of my great-great-great-great nieces owns it now."

Steve blinks. "That doesn't tell me what you feel about consuming it."

"Oh." Bucky shrugs. "Sure. The darker the better."

Steve leans in and kisses his lips before he lifts the blankets and rolls out. Bucky squeals and jerks the comforter back into place. "It's cold! You've taken my personal furnace away!!"

Steve snorts. "Your personal furnace is also your personal chef. Be back soon."

Bucky makes an unimpressed noise, disappearing under the blankets in a lump, and Steve pauses for a moment, staggered by the unbearable fondness he feels. He manages to get himself together enough to pull on some pants, heading into the kitchen. 

Doing something with his hands centers him, but it also gives him even more time to think; as he mixes batter for pancakes and heats up the griddle, he is tugged back to the series of small discoveries he's made about Bucky. For a creature entirely reticent and devoted to the facade of disinterest, he's let an awful lot of his mask slip, revealing glimmering facets of his personality. 

He does, then, have remaining family, though it doesn't sound like he keeps up with them. He's isolated himself completely from any potential legacy.

Long life can be a blessing and a curse. It's hard for Steve to contextualize the loneliness, but werewolves live in packs, and even when mortal members pass away, the rest of the family is there for support. He can't imagine being the _only_ immortal being in his pack. Can barely comprehend what that would feel like. 

He's busy pouring pancakes out in neat, regular circles when he hears Bucky moving around, evidently enticed out of his den by the vanilla'd scent of breakfast. When he emerges into the kitchen, he's wearing the fuzzy robe, his hair a tumbled mass of dark curls, endearingly rumpled. 

"Well, isn't this domestic," he drawls, settling himself on a stool at the kitchen island. "Where's your apron?"

"In the laundry, and I wasn't about to dig it out and use a dirty one for company," admits Steve. 

This draws a snort out of Bucky, who looks _startled_ that he's made any such noise. He immediately tries to recover, tipping his chin up and staring down his nose at Steve. "Well, at least you have _some_ manners."

Steve turns back to the griddle and starts to meticulously flip each pancake. They're all perfect. He's done this a few thousand times. "You wanna open up your calendar for me, Buck? Let me pick a few days."

"Fine." Bucky produces his phone from one of the pockets of the robe and flicks it open. His nose wrinkles, but he manages to find a couple of workable dates. "I have Tuesday and Friday open. The rest of my nights are full, unfortunately."

Steve lifts an eyebrow, before he turns to grab a plate. "Unfortunately? Isn't it good to be busy?"

Bucky's mouth opens and then snaps shut, cheeks tinted pink. "Well, yes, just—I usually like one day off, to myself."

"Well, you don't have to give up both days for me, if you don't want," reasons Steve as he starts plating up the stacks of fluffy, perfect pancakes.

"No," he blurts. "That's fine. I'll—it's fine. Which day do you want me to sit for the portrait?"

"Friday, I think. Gives me some time to do some warm ups. Haven't drawn in a while. I want to do you justice, honey."

There's a huff, and then he says, "Fine. You can—come to my place, if you want. I'll show you the other pieces you asked about."

Steve has to work hard not to react. Everything in him wants to stop what he's doing and whirl around in shock, but if he expresses surprise in any way, he's sure Bucky will retract the offer. If Bucky revealed that no one knows he has a cat, then clearly no one has ever been invited over to his apartment. 

"That sounds nice. Is it tacky if I invite myself for dinner, and we make a date out of it? I'll order in for us," Steve says casually, keeping his back to Bucky as he pours off the last of the batter. 

There's a moment of tense silence, but at length, Bucky says, "I suppose if you're buying dinner, I can't object." 

"You can always object," says Steve, turning around and winking at Bucky, two plates in hand. "Like I said, if your week is too full, then forget dinner."

"No," Bucky says quickly, and there's that flash of vulnerability again, a brief moment of fear that maybe Steve will _cancel_ , now. "No, I like that. Dinner, first. It's fine. Really."

"Here you go, sweetheart," says Steve, setting their plate down. He returns to the fridge for the maple syrup, setting it in front of Bucky and then pulling up a stool across from him. "Need anything else? Coffee? Tea?"

"No," says Bucky, picking up the maple syrup. His big gray eyes drop to the stack of golden pancakes in front of him, and his expression seems to falter for a moment, a complicated emotion overtaking him before his face smooths over again. "No," he repeats quietly. "This is perfect."


	8. Bucky

After breakfast, Steve insists on taking Bucky home personally, and Bucky doesn’t fight him. 

The night has been long, and Bucky is worn and weary, stretched paper thin; a crumpled notebook page torn out and balled up only for someone to come along and try to smooth him out again. He feels as if one wrong move could rip him apart, but there’s a softness to his vulnerability that he can’t help but cherish. 

So, he lets Steve take him home and drop him off, waiting at the curb for him to make it safely behind closed doors as if he’s precious and needs the protection. 

Bucky found it annoyingly chivalrous before, but in his current tender state, he finds a warmth in Steve’s concern that prickles his eyes. 

As soon as he gets home, Alpine greets him with a loud, demanding yowl. She weaves her way aggressively through his legs with every step he tries to take. 

“Yes, I know, I’m sorry. It is truly a betrayal that I should leave you alone for twelve whole hours. How dare I?”

Alpine warbles at him in response, and Bucky lets himself smile at her antics; they really are a well-matched pair. He fed her last night, before he left, and yet she remains unsatisfied, yelling in his face in protest of his cruel treatment of her. 

Deftly stepping over her little body and avoiding each attempt to trip him, Bucky goes into the kitchen only to find her bowl is still half-full. 

"You little monster," he says, turning to look at her with his hands on his hips. "What is this? Is the expensive, premium food your refined palate demands suddenly not good enough for you?" 

As Alpine puts both paws on his knee, rising up to meow plaintively at him, he can only reflect on how _he_ did this. She wasn't a talkative cat when he adopted her, but he's read that cats mirror their owners, and Bucky has always talked constantly to Alpine. Now she talks back, and he sighs dramatically, bending down to scoop her up into his arms. 

She starts purring immediately, and he nuzzles her belly and gets a soft paw to the face for his trouble.

"Maybe you're not hungry?" he murmurs. "And you just missed me? Or perhaps this is just a ploy for a fresh bowl of food."

He stares into her baleful eyes and narrows his own. “Hmmm. Things can be two things, I guess.”

She meows and he kisses her soft cheek before he gives in and fetches Alpine a fresh meal. She meows and squirms and watches with interest but also does not allow him to put her down until her food is fully prepared. Only then does she settle back onto the floor, and Bucky sits next to her and pets her gently while she eats, listening to her purr like a well-maintenanced machine. 

Bucky has a sudden, extremely unwelcome flashback to this morning’s breakfast, during which Steve rubbed his knee while Bucky ate every bite of the pancakes that he definitely didn't need, same as Alpine. "I—am a cat."

Alpine looks up, chirps at him, and goes back to the business of devouring her meal.

At least Bucky doesn’t purr. 

Eventually, Bucky leaves Alpine to her own devices, making his way past the kitchen to strip out of his clothes and fling himself into his own bed. So what if he drifted for four hours, held warmly in Steve's arms in the early hours of the morning? He's a creature of the night. He can't be up during the _day_.

Not that there was anyone around to teach him that, though. Bucky figured it out on his own. 

The sun is painful and causes damage to his skin, so he doesn't go outside during the day unless he absolutely can't help it, but there's nothing that obliges him to _rest_ during the day. His apartment is fully outfitted with black-out blinds and curtains. He doesn't _truly_ sleep, and rest is only necessary if he needs to heal. Nothing dictates he needs to go to bed. 

What else is there to do, though? His social life is built around evenings. Nobody expects him between the hours of 10 to 4. 

Not many people expect him at all. 

Abruptly, his eyes fill with tears. The sudden swell of uncontrollable emotion is so unexpected it manifests as a tight, heavy weight in his chest, like someone stepped onto his prone body, and he curls defensively into a ball, wrapping his arms around himself to protect against the phantom assailant. 

When he was dying, the sickness settled heavily in his lungs, and Bucky would wake up from fitful bursts of sleep completely unable to breathe, coughing and choking and gasping desperately for breath. 

He doesn't need to breathe anymore, but he still feels like he's suffocating, as almost painful sobs wrack his body. Hot tears splash down his cheeks, soaking the pillow, and he turns his face into the covers to muffle his horrible childish wails.

It’s not fair. It’s never been fair, and after two hundred years of being a vampire, he’s never quite come to terms with the awful reality of eternal lonesomeness. There is no one he loves still alive and his bitterness kept him from the only family he has left. 

Very slowly, the sobs subside, until his face is pressed to a wet pillow and he’s a little dizzy from the emotional exertion of it all. Now Bucky really does need to rest, let what’s left of Steve’s blood run its course restoratively through his system. Wiping his hand under his nose, he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He’ll need to clean his face and moisturize and apply under-eye cream or he’ll have bags, surely.

It's thoughts like these that Bucky clings to for some semblance of normality, of feeling _human_ when it’s most obvious he’s anything but. 

The cream probably does nothing, but it's soothing to go through his morning routine, carefully cleaning his face and applying moisturizer before smoothing on the cream under his eyes. When he’s done, he sits on the edge of his bed and brushes his hair until it's shiny and smooth, working out the curls that were set in them yesterday. 

It helps, a little. When he's in fresh, comfy pajamas, he crawls under the covers and curls onto his side. 

Maybe he needs to let go of some of that bitterness. It's been two centuries. There _are_ Barneses out there, Bucky knows the farm is still in the family... 

He closes his eyes and drifts.

In the evening, when the sun has dipped below the horizon but the sky is still ablaze with deep pinks and purples, Bucky rises and opens his phone’s browser, typing _barnes maple syrup_ into the search field. 

The first result that pops up is the website for the family farm, offering a tour and tasting, as well as gift shop hours and an email for booking group events. The digital picture album seems to indicate it’s a popular spot for weddings now. 

Bucky takes it all in with greedy eyes, devouring every detail he’s denied himself for so long. A lot has changed since he last visited, but so much is eminently recognizable: the _historic_ family home, the _historic_ barn, the _historic_ evaporators. His whole life laid out in ancient photographs, everything shockingly familiar, is now something that draws in tourists and young couples. 

He very nearly gives up right there, tempted to close out the page entirely, but then he spots the “about us” link and can’t help himself. There, at the top of the page, is a picture of a woman of about sixty who could be Becca’s carbon copy but for the dark red curls framing her face. There are two younger adults next to her, labeled as her children, a man and a woman, each with spouses and a gaggle of children: “The Barnes-Proctor Family.”

The same grief from the morning threatens to crush him, but Bucky swallows it back as he eagerly devours the photos, then checks opening times. 

The only issue he can see, aside from the tidal wave of his own emotions, is that the farm opens and closes early, so he'll need to make it a morning trip. That's fine. He doesn't plan to stay _long_ , just.... make contact, for the first time in decades. Maybe browse the gift shop. 

Is he recognizable, still? Will they know him? It's Becca's face, in that photo, which is _his_ face, too. Strong genes, their family. 

With that in mind, Bucky rents a car, booking it for 6 AM, and then checks his calendar, because he wasn't bluffing with Steve: he does have previous engagements. While a large part of him wants to cancel his evening, he knows that's not productive. He needs something to distract him.

It’s an easy enough commitment. He gets dressed up, he flirts shamelessly, he sucks a dick and sucks some blood—

Well, he tries. The taste nearly makes him gag, as though it’s gone _bad_ , even though it’s fresh from the source. Bucky cuts his evening short, waving it off as a full stomach and excusing himself not long after. 

The last thing Bucky wants to do is give serious thought to what that could possibly mean, so he doesn’t. Instead, he goes home and gets ready for his trip upstate.

The sky is only just beginning to lighten, but he's already ready to go, freshly showered and changed into more casual, comfortable clothes. 

His stomach is a nervous tangle as he braids his hair and selects a wide-brimmed sun hat to take with him, checking his bag for the tenth time. Bucky doesn’t leave the city often. He packs gloves, too, and makes sure he has a spare cardigan with him. He has the energy of an elderly woman packing to go to the beach, not that of a youthful vampire stuck eternally at age 20. Still, he doesn't want to show up blistering and burned to see his— 

Family.

Bucky grabs a cab to the car dealership, then spends an hour cursing this city and everyone in it as he remembers why he doesn't drive here, before he's finally out of city traffic and headed north. 

The leaves are changing, and it's staggeringly beautiful. 

In the autumn, the sugar bush is closed, though the farm still offers tours, and the gift shop sells items year round. There's a pumpkin patch adjacent to the parking lot, which is new, but Bucky grudgingly admits it's a perfect business tactic to expand the farm’s opportunities into the kind of wholesome seasonal kitsch that appeals to all ages.

Next to the gift shop, there’s a nice farm-to-table restaurant that features local produce and partners with a nearby winery. Bucky is particularly interested in trying it out, but perhaps only if he gets a chance to visit before they recognize him— _if_ they recognize him. He can't quite decide if he wants them to or not. 

As he pulls up to the farm, there are odd flashes of memory that filter in. A side effect of becoming a vampire is crystal clear memory, but he's intentionally pushed away everything to do with his human past for so long, it feels like it's rushing back. He remembers being a young man, visiting here with his twin sister. The family was well off enough that they maintained both the residence here and the one in the city. This was their holiday home, for the most part.

He remembers running in the woods in early spring, when the melt came but before the trees could bud, helping carry pails of thick, dark syrup on knobbly branches. He remembers watching as the workers boiled it down. He remembers his father, steady and warm, even in the stoic demeanor common to men of the time. He remembers his mother, fussy and sharp in contrast. 

Most of all, though, he remembers Becca. He remembers her wedding, held right here on the farm, in late fall. He remembers toasting the newlyweds again and again, laughing and drinking late into the night. He remembers getting sick that winter, just after Christmas.

After that, the memories are buried further and further down, and they bubble up painfully. 

He remembers what he thought would be his last breaths, and he remembers waking up after, in no pain, senses sharpened; he remembers his loving, anxious family, and the deep betrayal he felt when he realized what they had done. What it meant. What they didn't seem to understand. 

The _rage_ that filled him, trying to communicate how selfish it was for them to make that choice for him, without ever once considering the impact it would have on his life. 

His long, lonely life. 

Bucky stopped aging, but Becca, his twin, the other half of his heart, did not. 

And as a newlywed, in love, pregnant already, Bucky knew that their lives would diverge in a way he never anticipated, even when facing certain death. Even with a second chance at life, things between them would never be the same again. 

He realizes he's crying, sitting in his parked car, and angrily digs into his bag to find some wet wipes, cleaning his face as he sniffles miserably. 

It's done. He drove all the way out here, and he's not leaving until he makes contact, and spends an obscene amount of money in the gift shop.

Stubbornly committed, Bucky puts on his hat, pulls down his sleeves, and hides as much of his skin from the sun as he physically can. As he gets out of his car, he grabs an umbrella to provide shade, long past caring about the kinds of looks he gets when he has to exist in the sunlight hours. Then, he begins the short trek up the quaint, wooden slat path. The welcome area has a family and two couples milling about, and there’s a young woman at a podium, which he assumes is visitor information. 

“Hello!” she greets him, a bright smile on her face. Her name tag identifies her as ‘Katie Barnes-Proctor’. 

Bucky stares, momentarily struck dumb, but he recovers quickly. “Hello, Katie. I’m here for the tour.”

“Perfect! Is it just you today, Mr...?”

Well. He doesn’t want to lie already. So instead he says, “It’s just me today. You can call me Bucky.”

If she thinks that’s unusual, either his name or that he’s alone, she doesn’t make any indication, just nodding with a pleasant expression. She takes out a Sharpie, scrawling the name in bubbly lettering on a name badge sticker. “Here you go! The tour will start in fifteen minutes. One adult ticket is $20 and it comes with samples and a pancake breakfast at our restaurant.”

Bucky pays, and accepts the name tag, sticking it to his sweater, before hanging back from the others to wait for the tour to begin. 

The bones of the farm remain the same; the outbuildings are immaculately maintained structures that speak to being over two hundred years old, and lend the place the history and gravitas that make the business so successful now. His brain keeps superimposing memories over what he's seeing, every time he turns his head, pointing out what's different and what's the same. 

The gift shop is the newest building, though it's been constructed to look rustic. He's staring into the woods when the tour guide appears, and he quickly dismisses them; they're not a Barnes or a Proctor, which means he can spend the next hour of the tour fortifying himself for the inevitable after. 

It's the off-season, so none of the equipment is in use, but the guide is engaging and informative as she leads them through a gorgeous, winding trail in the woods. The leaves are changing, bold reds and crisp oranges and yellows, and he lets the tour guide's voice wash over him as she stops them at certain areas where unused equipment is displayed in little exhibits, both historical and contemporary, to show how the process of collecting and boiling sap has changed over time. 

As they reach the end of the trail, winding back around to return them to the farm, the guide stops at an old-fashioned pot erected over a fire. In the early spring, surrounded by snow, this fire would be lit, and the pot would be full of boiling sap, but instead, they're offered samples: a little flight of shot glasses with different grades of syrup ranging in colour from deep brown to light amber. 

The other guests giggle as they knock back shots of pure maple syrup, the guide continuing to explain boiling times, the grading system, and the expected flavors. 

Bucky is licking Grade A golden from his lips when he catches a shadow out of the corner of his eye, a man standing at the edge of the woods. 

When he turns to get a better look, the man is gone.

It’s an odd familiarity, but it’s one he can’t quite place. Maybe that’s what makes it so weird. All day, he’s had no problem at all shifting between newly-remembered memories and the present day, cataloging and organizing. It seemed so easy.

He tries to shake off the resulting feeling of unease, and he turns his attention back to the tour as it winds them through the gift shop with the promise of the pancake breakfast waiting for them at the restaurant when they’re finished with their shopping. Bucky grabs a basket and fills it with enthusiasm, getting a beautiful set of decorative bottles filled with every variety of syrup on offer. He also picks up several bottles of his favorite syrup and, upon reflection, gets a second of the gift set for Steve. 

Bucky hasn't quite figured out why he feels interested in sharing this part of his life—or any part, really—with Steve, but it's an instinct he doesn't want to second guess. He also picks up some trinkets, keychains and magnets and gobs of maple candies in all shapes and sizes, handing over his black card without even paying attention to the total. 

In the restaurant, he's digging into his third pancake with gusto when a woman with silver streaked through her red hair walks up to his table. She pulls the chair out across from him and sits without invitation, but her face betrays no ill intent. Rather, she looks...curious. She also looks like Becca. "Hello, Bucky."

Bucky was expecting this, of course. Came here with the intention of being seen, noticed, and eventually seeking out his family himself if he somehow didn't call enough attention to himself in his ridiculous sun hat. 

He maybe _wasn't_ expecting to be faced with a descendant while he's in the middle of busily shoving fluffy pancakes into his mouth, so he takes his time chewing and swallowing before dabbing delicately at his lips with the napkin. Finally, he’s able to return the greeting. "Hello. Please forgive me, it's been a while since I checked in. Your name...?"

"Judith," she says with a wry smile. "Of course. We've never met."

"I am always at a disadvantage, but it's through no fault of your own," Bucky says. He's trying so hard not to look and sound so stiff; he chose to come here, he chose to be seen, and yet....

He clears his throat, making direct eye contact when he realizes he's staring over Judith's shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "You just look so much like her."

Judith's smile tugs sadly at her lips. "Strong genes," she says softly. Her eyes are a little more blue, a little less gray, but they flick over Bucky's face with interest, her expression one of awe. "When was the last time you came by?"

Bucky shrugs. He knows the exact date, of course, but it's not worth being specific. "A little before you were born, I think. Your mother was pregnant. I really like what you've done with the place. Contemporary, capitalizing on the area and expanding opportunities, but the heart of it is still true."

Judith looks surprised. "Thank you. That's kind of you to say."

Bucky shrugs again. "Just the truth."

"And what brought you here today? After so long?"

"I don't know," Bucky admits. "Family was on my mind. I live a very—solitary life."

"I imagine it must be difficult," Judith says slowly, studying him. "You don't...have anyone like you?"

Bucky feels the warmth that floods his cheeks, Steve's blood still making his physiological responses more life-like. "Not...exactly like me, and the addition of anyone at all like me has been very recent." He makes a face, realizing he's being very cryptic. "I'm—dating someone. A werewolf."

Judith's eyebrows go up and her mouth quirks into a smirk that reminds him so vividly of Becca that his heart aches. "Aren't you two supposed to be enemies?"

Bucky huffs. "It's not Twilight, y'know."

"I was thinking more along the lines of Underworld," she laughs.

"To be frank, I wouldn't know," Bucky admits. He doesn't know this woman, but she's some of the only family he has left, and he sees Becca in every one of her mannerisms and responses. "I've kept myself separate from others like me. Just between you and me, Judith, I have resented my nature for a very long time."

Judith reaches out, then, putting her hand over Bucky's on the table. She squeezes briefly, doesn't hold on long, but the warmth of her hand remains. "You're always welcome here," she says quietly. "Every new member of the family... We tell them about you, show them the pictures we have. Everyone knows the family history. Katie didn't want to put you on the spot, second-guessing herself, but she came to let me know."

"I thought so," Bucky says wryly. He swallows, a lump in his throat. "Maybe I'll make an effort to come visit more than once every seventy years. I thought maybe I'd get used to it, the way time flows differently, but... It hasn't gotten easier."

"This partner," Judith says. "Do they age like you do?"

"Yes," says Bucky. "That is to say, they don't age at all."

"Then I hope you don't have to cloister yourself in your fortress of solitude forever," Judith says smartly. 

"Wow, a family of nerds. A Superman reference this time," teases Bucky, feeling a little lighter, even as his throat burns with the urge to cry. He clears it, continuing on. "I want to be more involved. To get to know you and the rest of the family."

"Then you will," she says confidently. "I know we don't have the same time as you, but we still have some, and we're happy to share what we do have with family, with you."

"Oh no," he says, giving up the fight and reaching for a napkin to dab at his eyes as they well up. "Now you've done it. In the family lore, did Becca happen to write down that I'm a cryer?"

Judith shakes her head, giving him a kind smile. "No, that I get to learn all for myself."

Bucky makes a soft sound and nods, taking a moment to get himself under control before he asks, "Do you think I could maybe meet some more today? Once the tourists leave?"

"Yes, I think they'd like that. My son and his family live here, and my oldest grandson, Jacob, he's in for the weekend from NYU. He's studying to be a doctor there."

"A doctor," Bucky rasps, nodding his head and wiping away the stray tear that escapes down his cheek. "No maple syrup dynasty for Jacob, hm?"

Judith laughs, clear and bright, and politely does not comment on how Bucky is quietly crumbling under the weight of his own sorrow. 

It's nice, though, even if it is hard. If every second of it feels like he's struggling to breathe again as his lungs fill with water. 

While not everyone has such strong features of likeness, each member of the family that he meets echoes back to his own immediate family in some way. Maybe he's imagining it, projecting mannerisms onto them that don't exist, or maybe it's just strong genes, like Judith says. 

They all know him, as promised, and depending on the age of the family member, the shock and awe varies. Judith seats him in the kitchen, with a glass of homemade lemonade and a plate of sandwiches, ignoring his protests that he just devoured a stack of pancakes, and, best of all, she pulls out the photo albums. 

It turns out the whole family is good at ignoring his tears. 

He wonders briefly if they think him pathetic; an ageless, lonely creature deserving of pity, perhaps. His insecurities might prey on him, here, if it weren't for the honesty of the emotions in everyone he meets. It clarifies their reactions to empathy, to familial belonging. 

It's not something Bucky's felt in a long, long time.

The sun is setting by the time he's getting ready to leave, Judith walking him out to his car, as though he's one of her grandchildren in need of looking after. It makes it easy to accept her offer of physical affection when she holds open her arms for him in the parking lot. He allows himself to be wrapped up, gentle as he reciprocates, inhaling her scent. He doesn't have enhanced senses like Steve, but he still catches the hint of her perfume and the clean smell of her hair and skin, all underpinned by the sweet scent of maple syrup from a day among their family's craft. It smells like home.

When they release one another, Bucky steps back, and as he does, he glances out into the darkness of the surrounding woods. There is one area of his senses that is amplified, and that's his vision. He sees things more sharply and at greater distances. He also sees even better at night. 

And there, right by the treeline, he sees the same figure as he did earlier that day, and this time he knows why it is familiar. 

It reminds him of his maker.

A chill runs through him. He must visibly tense, or otherwise indicate his fear, because Judith asks, "What's wrong?" and by the time Bucky turns to look at her, and then glances back at the treeline, the figure has, once again, vanished. 

Bucky represses his shudder. "I thought I saw..." He pauses, swallows, and then takes her hand in his. "Nothing. Probably nothing."

Pierce wouldn't hurt them. Surely not. Is it a threat? Is he warning Bucky that his family isn't safe? 

"But?" asks Judith, brow furrowed. 

"If you ever get a visitor," he says slowly. "An older gentleman, that looks like he’s in his fifties or sixties, distinguished, blue eyes, blond hair... Don't invite him in."

"That's real?" asks Judith.

"For private residences, yes. Public are..." Bucky waves it off. "I don't mean someone at the farm or the gift shop. I mean at the door to your home... An unexpected visitor. For me, just do it, please? And call me. Do you promise?"

They’d exchanged numbers earlier, with the promise of keeping in touch.

"Of course," says Judith, her eyes searching his face. "Can I ask what this is about? Should I be worried?"

"I don't—" Bucky breaks off, sighing. "I don't think so. I think perhaps the excitement of the day has old memories playing tricks on me, but the man I described was my maker. His name is Alexander Pierce, and I haven't seen him in many, many years. As many years as have passed since I was made what I am today."

"Would this man have some reason to find your family?" asks Judith.

Bucky shakes his head. "Not that I know of...but vampires, well...vampires like him, anyway, I’ve learned they care quite strongly about personal legacy. Maybe—he just wanted to see. If he was even there at all. My mind’s been playing tricks on me all day. I don't want to worry you. I just—"

"Want me to be prepared," she concludes, nodding. "I'll heed your warning and make sure the family all know too."

"Thank you," he sighs, letting out a breath he couldn't help but hold, despite himself. 

"Of course. Don't be a stranger, Bucky. We can't wait to see you again." She gives him another grin. "And bring your werewolf friend next time. He sounds like quite the sight to see."

Heat floods Bucky's cheeks again, and he curses being well-fed. Werewolf blood certainly has a kick to it—an embarrassing detail Bucky definitely doesn't want Steve to discover. 

"We'll see," he grumbles, and she laughs, and pats his cheek. 

"Don't be a stranger."

By the time Bucky gets home, he's exhausted, mentally and spiritually. 

He cancels his planned date, completely bankrupt of energy or charm, and instead gets undressed and slips into a hot bath. 

Maybe he should cancel all his plans for the rest of the week, until his—date, with Steve. 

Take it easy, for once. Allow himself to wallow in his emotions. He doesn't need the extra money, and for some reason, just the thought of putting on an act with a client makes him want to curl up and cry.

So, he cancels. Bucky doesn’t immediately reschedule, either, and although some of his most loyal customers seem disappointed that he’s canceled indefinitely without suggesting a new date, no one really fights him on it either. 

He’s not entirely sure _how_ he feels about that, but relief seems to drown out any other unnameable emotions for the time being. 

And isn’t _that_ odd?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky was made a vampire without his full consent.


	9. Steve

Steve prepares for his date with Bucky in all the usual ways, but he also prepares in ways that usually have nothing to do with romance. 

As a compulsive collector of stationery, Steve knows that what he needs is definitely hiding somewhere in his apartment. He finds a large unused sketchbook in the closet after a brief search, flipping it open to a fresh page and sitting down at the bay window to look out into the street and draw whatever catches his eye. It's been so long since he really took the time to think about his art instead of idly filling pages with restless nonsense. 

It feels good. Not just to do this, to make art, but to know that it’ll eventually be Bucky that ends up on the page. 

He spends several hours reacquainting himself with the feel of the page, the scent of paper and lead and eraser shavings, the particular sound of good graphite pencil rasping against quality paper. With an hour left before he’s supposed to arrive, Steve washes his hands and packs a small overnight bag. He heads out, stopping briefly at the bodega just down the block from Bucky's to buy him a beautiful bouquet of purple hydrangeas. 

When he buzzes up to be let in, Bucky is prompt to respond, feeding Steve’s eagerness to see Bucky in his natural habitat, to get one more tiny piece of Bucky that no one else has.

While he’s visited the exterior of the building to pick Bucky up before, this is his first time inside; it's an older building, but immaculately kept and expertly managed, and Bucky appears to own the penthouse on the top floor. 

It's exactly the kind of home Steve would expect of him; isolated, private, and luxurious. The location gave him a hint, of course, but as he's riding the elevator up to the penthouse, he indulges in the pang of sympathy that swells up inside his chest at the thought of Bucky rattling around at the top of a building that nobody visits with only his cat for company. 

The elevator slows to a stop and the doors ping open, revealing an entryway of polished marble. 

Bucky is waiting for him, barefoot in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, holding a white cat in his arms like a baby. There's a guarded look on his face, which, when contrasted with the sweep of his long hair in a loose, messy bun, and the soft clothes, gives him an aura of intense vulnerability. 

This, unlike the building itself, is not what Steve was expecting to find. Bucky is careful with his appearance, wearing high fashion and impeccable hair and nails like armor. 

Steve takes a slow breath and steps forward, the door pinging shut behind him. "Hey, Buck. Brought you these," he murmurs, holding out the flowers. 

Bucky sniffs, cool gaze flicking over Steve. "Wasn't sure how Alpine would react to you, so I'm going to keep her in my office while you’re here. Put those in some water in the kitchen, would you?" 

He abruptly turns and strides away, Alpine yowling in his arms as he leaves Steve to find his own way.

Steve finds the kitchen easily enough, opening and closing cabinets until he uncovers a stash of vases that Bucky has clearly collected over the years of being sent flowers. He selects one he hopes meets Bucky's approval and fills it, adding the little packet of flower food that comes in the bouquet and snipping the ends over the trash with the kitchen scissors. He's just fanning out the flowers when Bucky comes in, appearing beside him with a burst of vanilla sugar scent. 

"Are you a florist now?" Bucky asks, a teasing note to his voice. 

Steve looks over and gives him a grin. "Well, I've had a long life."

"Hmmm." Reaching out, Bucky rearranges the flowers ever so slightly before scooping up the vase and bringing it out to the living area. He places it on an end table next to the couch. “These are much prettier than the chamomile.” He turns back to Steve and gives him an appreciative once over. “And you look nice too."

"Thank you," rumbles Steve, stepping into Bucky's space again, this time bringing his hand up to cup Bucky's jaw, tipping his chin up for a kiss. "You look—inviting.”

The faintest of blushes sprouts across Bucky's nose and the tops of his cheeks, as if there's barely anything left in his system to provide the color. Steve frowns. "Are you hungry, honey? Did you not have a chance to eat before I came over?"

Bucky's big gray eyes go wide for a brief moment, Steve's observation clearly catching him off guard, before his expression closes off, brows furrowing, that soft, expressive mouth curving into a natural frown. "Don't do that," he grumbles, thumping a hand against Steve's chest. 

"Do what?" murmurs Steve. 

Bucky turns his face away, denying Steve a response, and Steve allows him the privacy, even if he's still in Steve's arms. Instead, he glances around the living room space, taking in the floor to ceiling windows, the sleek, modern furniture, and the enormous glass-walled gas fireplace that's crackling away. It's clear this unit has been renovated over the years. 

"That," grumbles Bucky, fingers curled in the front of Steve's shirt, tugging petulantly at the fabric. "Looking at me with such scrutiny. It's rude, you know."

"I'd like to make sure you're taken care of," Steve rumbles. "It doesn't look like your clients are doing their jobs."

"They just pay, darling," Bucky says, voice sharp. "I'm the one that does a job. Did you come here to comment on my complexion, or are you here to show me you're not just a big set of muscles?"

"I came here for a lot of reasons," allows Steve, gentling his voice in contrast to Bucky's. He lets the backs of his fingers slide up Bucky's jaw until they reach his ear, tugging gently before he buries his hand in the thick twist of Bucky's hair. His fingertips drag gently over his scalp and Steve watches with satisfaction as Bucky's annoyance melts away with the touch, practically purring in Steve's grip. "One of which was to draw your pretty face, so you'll excuse me if I'm more attentive to detail. You know I just like making sure you're well looked after."

Bucky pouts, eyes fluttering as he blinks up at Steve. "Are you saying I'm not as pretty?" he wheedles, deftly twisting Steve's words to deflect. 

"Honey, it would take something far more drastic than your blush being lighter than usual to keep you from being the prettiest thing I've ever seen." Steve kisses his lips. "Come on, let me give you what you need, Buck. Don't you want to indulge me?"

"I think I indulge you plenty," Bucky mutters, pouting outrageously as he cuts his gaze away from Steve, letting him admire the sharp line of his jaw and high cheekbones as he poses dramatically. "And I don't need anything from you. I'm perfectly healthy."

"I don't doubt it," Steve concedes, knowing, by now, when to stop pushing and let Bucky yield. "I still want to give it, though."

Bucky huffs. "Fine. Later. Let me show you what you were after, first."

Taking Steve's hand in both of his, Bucky backs away and tugs him along. "Keep your judgments to yourself," Bucky says, guiding Steve through the living room and into a wide corridor. There are three doors, all closed, and Steve assumes they lead to bedrooms, but lining the hallway itself are the aforementioned portraits. "And hold your tongue on all remarks regarding vanity; I don't display these to anyone, so you can't argue I'm seeking attention."

There are six portraits, in all, done in oils. The first two are paired, and after a brief moment, Steve is startled to realize only the one on the right is Bucky, while the other subject must be a sibling. A sister? A twin, perhaps. 

After that, the four remaining portraits are Bucky alone, each spaced several decades apart.

Steve tries not to linger on the picture of what must be Bucky's sibling, instead spending time at each of the four newer paintings, admiring the work. Steve knows art, has made a very good living and career since coming to America from dealing in art, so he can't help the way his breath catches as he realizes he recognizes the work in each piece. "Is this...a Leyendecker?"

Bucky hums, something secret, almost soft about his smile. "Yes."

Steve blinks and then turns back to the painting, the way it captures Bucky's raw sensuality, his perfect 1940s fashion with his full lips and cocky smile. 

Steve looks again at the one next to it. "And this is a Sargent." The cool, stark colors suit Bucky, the hazy brush strokes giving him a dreamlike quality, eyes an icy blue. 

The other two are shortly identified as a Maxfield Parrish, the painting capturing Bucky laying out in a field under the moonlight, and an Andrew Wyeth, Bucky gazing out over a stormy sea in cerulean and navy and indigo. 

As he turns back to the picture of Bucky and his sister, he pauses. There's something so human about both of these pictures, something young. The painter, however, is difficult to place, at first. It's very clearly at the beginning of their career, some of the strokes inexpert, but there's an undeniable talent, a simple beauty to both paintings. 

Steve startles a little when Bucky speaks. "Have you figured it out yet?"

It hits him all at once. "Inman. When did...?"

"1820,” Bucky says promptly. “The summer before I was turned. We were the same age, you know, Henry and I. We went to school together. The paintings were supposed to be done with John Wesley Jarvis—Henry was his apprentice, you see, but he was almost finished, and Becca already had so many beaus lined up that her painting was sure to be popular, so Henry talked us into letting him complete it on his own."

"He did an admirable job, for someone so young," Steve murmurs, nodding approvingly. "Someone at the beginning of their career." 

For such young subjects, as well, the soft strokes and muted colors highlight their youth. These are two young people captured right at the beginning of their adult lives, and yet, soon after, that would all change. Their expressions here capture hope and charm, though, and Steve finds himself deeply affected. 

"Your twin sister?" he asks tentatively. 

"Yes," Bucky says quietly. "These circulated private collections for a number of years after she died. I only reclaimed them recently. They used to hang in her living room, over the mantle."

"They're beautiful," Steve says simply. "As beautiful as the subjects."

Bucky huffs, and when Steve finally tears himself away from the paintings, finds him standing diminished, arms wrapped around his torso in a tight, awkward hug. The second he realizes Steve's looking at him, he drops his arms and straightens, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. "Flattery gets you everywhere, of course," he says airily.

"How lucky, then, that it comes so naturally when I'm with you, and all I want to get is you," Steve murmurs, reaching out. He's slow in his movement, clearly telegraphing his intent, and Bucky could easily sidestep him if he chose to do so, but he stays put. Instead, he allows Steve's hand to circle his delicate wrist and tug, pulling him close. 

"Over the top," dismisses Bucky, but he leans into Steve's space, letting Steve wrap him up. 

Steve presses a soft kiss to the crown of his head. "I don't know how I could do you justice when you've been captured by such talent already, but I think I'd like to try for as many years as you'll permit me."

Bucky doesn't reply to that, ducking his face until it's hidden away against Steve's chest, but Steve doesn't mind. He'll look his fill later. For now, he just wants to hold Bucky. 

What must it be like, for there to be no one left alive who knew him in his youth, knew him when any of these paintings were done. Even their painters are long since departed. He doesn't pity Bucky, exactly, but he does feel a deep sorrow that he couldn't have met him sooner and saved him from this solitude.

"You can mess around with your charcoals and paints later," Bucky mutters, his lips soft against Steve's throat where he's tucked his face. The tip of his nose is cold. "Come on, I'll show you my bedroom."

Steve sighs, reluctantly letting Bucky pull away from his embrace, and follows him to the end of the corridor and through the double doors there. 

It's opulent, of course; Bucky's king-sized four poster bed is on a raised platform in the center of the main bedroom, and the dark, heavy curtains are pulled back to reveal the nest of tumbled pillows and crisp sheets within. The rest of the bedroom is cluttered with furniture: a tall dresser, a massive vanity covered in jewelry, hair accessories, combs, brushes, and jars and bottles of hair product, and several end tables adorned with lamps and knickknacks. The lights of the vanity mirror are on, illuminating the semi-dark room. 

"Clothes off," Bucky says, leading Steve in by the hand and then letting it drop to strip out of his shirt and pants. "If you want me to feed, then I need some foreplay, and at that point, we might as well just have sex. That'll really give me some color, hmm?"

Steve only hesitates for a moment before he begins to unbutton his shirt. "I can't fault that logic," he says cheerfully. 

Bucky insists on riding him, pushing Steve onto his back and straddling his hips on the plush mattress as he fingers himself open for Steve to watch. It's hard not to get caught up in Bucky's ethereal beauty, the cascading curls of soft dark hair tumbled artfully over his shoulders, the electric glow of his eyes when the dim light catches him at just the right angle, the pleasure that suffuses his face and softens the harsh edge of Bucky's defensive attitude. 

Steve wishes he could transpose this exact moment to paper, as Bucky guides Steve's cock inside him, hips moving with purpose as he sinks down with a low groan. Mind scanning through gesture drawings to capture the fluid movement of Bucky's body as he rocks his hips, head thrown back in building pleasure. 

"Hold me," Bucky demands, lowering his heavy-lidded gaze to meet Steve's eyes. His fangs have dropped, and the thin ring of visible iris glows like phosphorus. 

Steve sits up effortlessly, rising from his arousal-soaked stupor to gather Bucky into his arms. He sighs as Bucky drops his head to Steve's shoulder, hips still moving, fucking himself desperately onto Steve's cock, a moment before those sharp little teeth sink into Steve's throat.

It's a haze of pleasure and bodies moving together, Steve's head spinning pleasantly with every pull of Buck's mouth, until his knot begins to catch against Bucky's rim. With a grunt, Bucky lifts his lips from Steve's neck and shoves down hard, squeezing tight around Steve as Steve comes with a deep, satisfied groan. 

He's sure he's leaving marks all over Bucky's body, the blood he just provided translating into bruises on his hips and ass as Steve grips him tight. "Fuck, baby—that's so good, you're so good," he babbles, feeling irrepressibly affectionate. 

Petting Bucky's hair, he cradles him against his chest as he reaches between them and wraps a hand around Bucky's stiff cock, stroking him as he whispers gently to him, floating on his own pleasure as he gives Bucky his. "There you go, come for me."

"Daddy—" it breaks off into a little cry, Bucky's body spasming again around Steve's knot.

"That's it," Steve rumbles, milking him through his orgasm. With his other hand he cradles the back of Bucky's head, coaxing his mouth back down to Steve's neck. "That's it, baby... Good boy, there you go. Drink your fill, now, don't hold back."

Bucky makes a broken sound, lips sealing over Steve's skin. A jolt of pleasure accompanies the twin prick of his fangs, and Steve's knot twitches inside Bucky, dragging a muffled moan out of him. He releases Bucky's spent cock, wrapping both arms around him, cradling his body as he sags into Steve's grip. 

"So beautiful, Buck," he murmurs, rocking him in his arms, Bucky's hot little mouth applying feral pressure to his neck. "That's it. Take what you need. Can't hurt me. Good boy..."

It's Bucky who eventually breaks it off, the pressure easing with a hot swipe of his tongue over the wound. The throb heals over in moments, Steve breathing steadily as they sit cradled in each other, naked on Bucky's rumpled silk sheets. 

"That's dangerous," Bucky says in a low, fucked-out voice. "You taste obscene. If I leapt off the balcony, I could probably fly."

"Thought those stories about vampires turning into bats were just stories," Steve chuckles. 

"Shut up," Bucky mutters, punching him lightly in the hip. "They are."

Steve grins, leaning down to kiss Bucky’s cheek and then his bloodstained mouth. It deepens quickly, Steve tasting himself on Bucky’s tongue. He lets out a satisfied rumble. Bucky is _his_ —at least that’s what his instincts are telling him, and Steve’s not inclined to ignore them presently. 

Bucky settles against him after a small sulk and Steve kisses the top of his head. “I like this,” he confesses, at risk of annoying Bucky’s delicate sensibilities. “I like having you like this, on my knot, in my lap, full and content. It feels good.”

Bucky huffs, but he doesn’t squirm or otherwise indicate displeasure. He’s still snug and secure atop Steve. “You just like having something hot and tight around your dick.”

“Mmmm, yes,” agrees Steve, but before Bucky can get too outraged, he adds, “and I like _you_. I like that we can give each other something we don’t give to other people.”

“If you think I don’t let anyone else fuck me—”

“Intimacy.” Steve sighs, breathing in the scent of Bucky’s shampoo.

Bucky falls silent. 

Steve is expecting a strong negative reaction, but surprisingly, Bucky goes loose in Steve's arms, like tension he naturally holds in his body has bled out. Bucky's so warm, exertion bringing the fresh flush to the surface. 

"You really mean that," Bucky says quietly. 

"I don't say things I don't mean," Steve murmurs. He snuffles at Bucky's soft hair, closing his eyes with a quiet sigh, absolutely floating on a haze of pleasure. He is utterly sated and content, his brain humming with the knowledge that Bucky has been thoroughly fed in all the ways that matter. 

Bucky makes a small sound. "I liked it better when I thought you were just a stupid brute."

“Mmm, did you?” teases Steve. 

There’s a pause. Bucky squirms, then, tucking himself under Steve’s chin, wrapping his arms around Steve’s shoulders. When his answer finally comes, it’s soft and barely audible. “No, I guess not.”

Steve rubs his back and kisses Bucky’s temple. “I like you too, you know. Everything about you that you’ve shared with me. I’m greedy for every little detail.”

Bucky makes another sound, small and hunted. “Why must you be like this? I didn’t—I wasn’t missing anything before, not that I knew about. And now—”

“And now you’re not missing anything because I’m right here, and I’ll always give you what you need, if you’ll let me.” Steve holds him close, letting Bucky tremble in his arms. 

* * *

* * *

They’re both quiet while Steve’s knot goes down, exchanging soft kisses and warm touches, letting those gentle actions speak for everything they don’t need to say aloud right now. When Steve finally slips from Bucky’s body, he hushes his whimper and cradles him in his arms to get cleaned up, knowing how picky Bucky is about those things.

There's something about Bucky's withdrawn silence that Steve doesn't like, a twist to his pouty mouth and distance in his eyes that worries him, but Steve doesn't push. 

Instead, he sits on the edge of Bucky's lavish jacuzzi tub with Bucky in his lap as he turns on the faucet and lets the water run hot to fill the tub. Bucky has his face tucked against Steve's throat again, and it's strange to note there's no puff of breath against his skin. 

When the tub is full and brimming with bubbles, he lifts Bucky in and settles down with him in his lap. 

Bucky's eyes are rimmed with red. He's gnawing on his lower lip, a red pearl of blood rising to the surface before Steve leans in to kiss it away. 

"You must think I'm pathetic," Bucky mumbles, cutting his gaze away. "I refuse to believe you find me charming. I'm a horrible, lonely, vain creature. I don't know what I could even offer you once you get bored of my body. I can't have that again. I just can't. It's best you get over this fascination quickly."

"Bucky," Steve says gently. When Bucky doesn't look at him, he reaches out slowly, cupping his cheek in his hand to tilt his face up. Bucky's lashes are clumped with tears. His expression is miserable. 

"I didn't want this to happen," Bucky says, voice hoarse. "I didn't want to care."

Steve’s heart aches for him, for whatever pain he’s experienced to make him so afraid to be vulnerable to loss again. “Sweetheart, please. Why not? Is it so bad?”

Bucky makes a woeful noise, shaking his head a little. “It’s so...it’s ridiculous. I’m—”

“You’re not,” Steve interrupts. “You’re human, at your core, even if you’ve been transformed. You’re allowed to be sad about the things that have happened to you, no matter how long ago. Trust me, my mother has mourned my father for 400 years.”

Bucky blinks, a little “ _oh_ ,” on his soft mouth. Finally, he shudders, shrugging one shoulder. “My...my family, of course, I lost them all when I stopped aging and they didn’t. They...they chose this for me, but acted like I was the unfair one for being upset none of them—I had to watch them all die because they didn’t love me enough to stay with me.”

Steve's stomach twists at the pain in his voice. He swallows around the hard lump gathering in his throat and brushes his thumb over Bucky's pink cheek. "I'm sorry you had to go through that alone," he says softly. "That you paid such a terrible price to keep living."

"Living," scoffs Bucky, closing his eyes, tears spilling over. "This isn't living. I exist."

"Maybe that's what it was," Steve says. "But that's no small feat. Survival is nothing to be ashamed of."

"Oh, sure," Bucky drawls, face twisting up with loathing. "Survival, as I sit in my luxurious penthouse, at want of nothing."

"I think plenty of people will tell you that money doesn't buy happiness," Steve says dryly. 

"It sure doesn't hurt, though, does it." Bucky's mouth snags on a sneer. "I have the privilege of isolating myself in comfort while I languish in my depression. There is absolutely no reason to afford me any compassion for this, Steve. You can't have it all. That's what I've learned. The cost is your soul."

“Buck,” breathes Steve. He can’t hide his shock, his sorrow for Bucky. And maybe he doesn’t want to. “You have a soul. You’re not evil, you don’t deserve to suffer. Whatever you’ve been told, vampires are no more inherently evil than werewolves or fey or humans. You are part of a delicate balance, just like any creature.”

Bucky scoffs, shaking his head, but he doesn’t pull away. It’s as though he can’t help but accept the comfort of Steve’s touch, a fact that keeps him calm in the face of Bucky’s obvious distress. 

“What sort of balance could demand that I drink blood just to survive?” asks Bucky, tears streaming down his face. It’s odd, perhaps, the ferocity of Bucky’s grief accompanied by no desperate sobs, no shuddering breaths. Without the demand for air, his tears slip down silently. 

Steve brings his lips to Bucky’s forehead, his cheeks. “A balance that wants the world’s memories to last longer than a mortal man’s lifetime, that wants immortality to be gifted to those born with it _and_ those who understand fear of death acutely, a balance that ensures the world’s progress by making sure there is room for new life—a werewolf cannot turn a human, while a vampire could not survive if they turned or killed all living creatures. You are a vital part of the world.”

Bucky's eyebrows furrow as he wrestles with Steve's words in contrast to the obvious narrative he's written himself where he's nothing more than a parasite. A literal drain on humanity, punished for his gift and forced to watch those around him wither to nothing, traumatized away from the natural desire to seek out others of his kind for community and companionship.

He is sure, beyond begging his family to join him as a newly-turned fledgling, that he has never once used his power to turn someone else. How could he, when the very act of his life being saved doomed him to a lonely half life for the rest of eternity?

"I wish I could have been there for you when you needed to hear this," Steve says, taking Bucky's hands in his and squeezing them tightly. "Anything to keep you from suffering for so long. There's a place for you. This isn't the limit of what your life can be."

"I didn't know," Bucky says quietly. "I didn't know any of this. I was too afraid to find out. I didn't want to discover that everything I saw myself as was true. I weighed the risk, and decided not knowing was better than any truth at all."

Steve takes a deep breath, holding back the rising anger at Bucky’s maker, whoever they were. “Did your maker tell you nothing? Teach you nothing?”

Bucky shrugs tightly. “He didn’t stick around. My—my parents, they were desperate for a cure. I caught a chill in the winter and couldn’t shake it. He appeared to them one day like an answer to their prayers. I was asked, I think, but was delirious with fever. I remembered nothing of it after. One moment I was slipping away, and the next I awoke, healthy and hearty and _starving_. It was only my love for my sister that kept me from killing my whole family—” 

He breaks off abruptly, his gaze distant as if he’s reliving his past. He shudders in Steve’s arms. 

The story, horrifying as it is, has a familiar ring to it. Something sour settles in Steve’s stomach. “Your maker...do you know his name?”

“Yes. I met him once, after I managed to feed, to learn to control myself. He was—disappointed, I think.” Bucky shuts his eyes for a moment and when he blinks them open again, they’re cleared of distant visions of the past. “I think he wanted me to—to murder my family in my fledgling bloodlust. His name was Pierce. Alexander Pierce.”

Steve bites back the growl that threatens to build in his throat and rumble out of him. He doesn't want to subject Bucky to any kind of anger, even if it isn't directed at him, but upon mention of Alexander Pierce, he sees red. 

Whatever expression is on Steve's face has Bucky peering at him with something like fragile hope. Like maybe this isn't some nightmare he's dreamed up for himself. "Do you know him?"

"I know of him," Steve grits out. "I haven't met him directly, but I..." He hesitates, wanting to soften the blow. The reality of Pierce's relevance to Steve's life has uncomfortable parallels to what Bucky himself could have become. "A very long time ago, maybe a century now, there was a fledgling that went on a rampage in Red Hook. Freshly turned, blood-starved.... We couldn't help him, so I put him down."

Bucky's eyes go wide, silvery pale under the dimmed bathroom lights. "You killed him?"

"Yes," Steve admits. "I learned, later, that his maker was Alexander Pierce. That this was—a pattern, of his. We searched everywhere, but he'd left the state. He hasn't made attempts to return since."

Bucky trembles, his brows drawing together in a deep frown. He looks away, almost as if he means to get up and leave Steve right then, to chase after something Steve can't see. Reflexively, Steve's grip on him tightens and Bucky's gaze jerks back to him. 

"Oh, I—" he breaks off, swallowing. "I went to see my family, my—my sister's descendants, this past Monday, and while I was there, I could have sworn—"

"Could have sworn what?" Dread gathers in Steve's chest. "What did you see while you were there?"

"Alexander," whispers Bucky, something tight and angry in the word. "I thought at first my mind was playing tricks on me, but then I saw him again. If there's one thing about vampires I've learned over the centuries, it's that they care about legacy, about blood. He was skulking around the farm. It felt like a memory, at the time, but if what you say is true..."

"It may very well be him, trying to correct his 'mistake' with you." Steve barely keeps the snarl from his voice. "Bucky—"

"We have to stop him," says Bucky. "We have to find him and stop him from doing this to anyone else, ever again."

Steve expected the evening to go a little differently. He intended to love Bucky up, wrap him in a robe, and have him pose dramatically while Steve, at least, did some preliminary sketches, warming up and getting a feel for putting Bucky to paper. 

Instead, he wipes away Bucky's tears and dries him off, wrapping him up warmly and taking him back to bed. The portrait can wait. He soothes him as best he can, reassures him that there is nothing Pierce can do that they won't stop. 

"I warned them," Bucky repeats, for the third time, a bundle of anxious limbs in his arms. "I warned them not to invite him in. I made Judith promise to call me."

Steve kisses him, again and again, murmuring helpless words of reassurance, until Bucky finally seems to settle, eyes fluttering closed.

He knows that Bucky doesn't really sleep, but he's still and quiet, some of the tension seeping out of his limbs, at least, and only then does Steve let himself close his eyes too.


	10. Bucky

Bucky drifts fitfully at first, but the warmth and steadiness of Steve’s presence is a balm to his worries, and soon enough he settles. 

He is well-fed and well-fucked; sore in ways he almost never feels, but truly it is the emotional exhaustion that pulls him under. 

When he does return to himself, regaining full consciousness, he is aware of Steve beside him, snoring gently. There was a time, just a few short weeks ago, that he might have sneered at such a sight, taken the opportunity to mock him. Now, Bucky feels a lurch in his heart. This man has given him something he never let himself hope for. 

Steve has given him companionship, true and faithful and without caveat. 

He doesn't get to enjoy the tenderness of the moment, though. Intrusive thoughts persist and he is drawn back to the immediate threat of Alexander returning to his life. His lips curl in distaste, baring his fangs on instinct, and he hisses, sitting up and throwing off the covers. 

Steve startles beside him, suddenly alert and on guard. "What is it, what's going on?"

Bucky slides to the floor, any residual exertion fading while they rested, and now, with Steve's blood flowing through him, Bucky feels like a live wire, pacing restlessly alongside the bed. 

"Bucky," Steve says, sitting up in bed. "Did Judith call? What's wrong?"

It stops him in his tracks, the sight of Steve in his bed, rumpled from sleep. He is wholly unself-conscious in his nudity, miles of golden skin on display, and all his attention, his creased brow and pale blue eyes, are focused intently on Bucky. Worried for Bucky. This mountain of a man, this solid, clever, gorgeous creature—has partnered himself with Bucky. Whispered promises of a future, an unfettered and easy loyalty. 

Bucky doesn't have to do this alone. 

"No," admits Bucky, faltering in his urgency. "No, she...." He redirects his energy, plucking up his phone and checking his messages. He flicks impatiently through clients, through useless texts and emails, and then lets his shoulders drop. "No. But I can't just sit and wait until she does. What if it's too late? I won't leave her and her family open to a threat they have no hope of facing alone."

"Nobody here is alone, save for Pierce," Steve says steadily. He rises from the bed, Bucky following him up and up with his eyes, tracking him across the room as he recovers his clothes from the floor. "You have me. You have my pack. We outnumber Pierce completely even if he has managed to keep a fledgling's loyalty."

"Will you come with me?" Bucky asks anxiously. "I don't want to wait here. If she calls, we'd be so far away...."

Steve nods. "No, you're right, that wouldn't do. Where is your family's farm? I'm willing to bet it's not far from my pack's estate. I could call and ask some of them to go now, to do a circuit around the property to check on things."

Relief floods Bucky's body at the mere suggestion. "It's up north. Do you know Newcomb? Near Harris Lake. The farm is in that area."

Steve blinks at him, an odd expression on his face. "Yes, I know it. It's about a half hour drive from my pack's estate."

"Oh." The coincidence of it—the sheer fucking _luck_ —doesn't escape Bucky, but he doesn't have time to dwell on what forces in the universe destined them for one another. Would he have met Steve sooner if he hadn't isolated himself from what family he has left? No, no. He can't right now. "Well, that is good."

"Yes, it is," agrees Steve. "I just need to make a phone call. Do you want to call Judith? Let her know the farm will have some visitors soon?"

"Right, of course." He turns back to his phone, but as Steve starts to walk from the room, he looks up, an urgency overtaking him. "Steve, wait!"

Steve freezes in his tracks, turning back to Bucky expectantly. Bucky rushes forward, throwing his arms around him, and Steve just—catches him, wraps him up and kisses Bucky's seeking lips. "Thank you," whispers Bucky. "Thank you for—" 

"You are welcome, Buck. You're so welcome, to whatever I can do, whatever I can give."

Bucky makes a small sound, kissing Steve fiercely again, overwhelmed with gratitude, and with— 

With....

He falters, a little, but Steve just meets him where he is, softening his lips against him, holding Bucky securely in his strong arms. He is so, so warm, wrapped around Bucky like a protective blanket. 

Absurdly, Bucky thinks he might cry. "Thank you," he says shakily. "Now let me go, you big brute."

Steve chuckles softly, releasing him, and they separate to make their respective phone calls. 

Some of his anxiety fades the moment Judith answers, sounding perfectly fine. She is, once again, confused and concerned, but trusting, when he lets her know she'll be having visitors, but they won't be requesting entry, and they're there to keep an eye on the perimeter. Likely, once they make themselves known, she won't even see them again. 

"And you're sure you're okay?" Judith asks. "You're safe?"

"Me?" Bucky asks, startled. "I—yes. I'm with—I'm safe. My—Steve is—"

"Oh, good," says Judith. "You're with your man. Good."

Heat floods through Bucky's body in a traitorous response to the words _your man_. He huffs, flustered. "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. You remember the description I gave you, of Pierce?"

"Yes," Judith says patiently. "I'll call you if I see him."

When Bucky hangs up the phone, he finds himself in the kitchen, some nervous energy propelling him to fill the kettle. He's setting out mugs when Steve finds him. 

"All set," he says. "They'll be there soon. What are you doing?"

"Making...tea," he settles on, realizing what he's doing. A habit picked up from his mother, something soothing in the ritual. 

When he sees Steve's lifted eyebrow, he turns with a huff and picks up the small jar filled with dried tea leaves and flowers, a blend he made for himself from what he kept of Steve's gift. He scoops out several heaping spoonfuls into a teapot and pours the hot water over it to brew. 

He sees Steve take a deep breath and he also sees the moment recognition clicks, his face utterly open and readable. Steve lets out a laugh. "Needed a little patience, did we?"

Bucky rolls his eyes but doesn't stop himself from smiling. He sets the timer on the oven. "Well, I hear it's good to have when facing adversity."

"Yes," says Steve, walking up to hook an arm around Bucky, pulling him against his body. Bucky goes, welcoming the affection. "It does pay off in the long run."

"Sap," scolds Bucky, but he turns in Steve's arms, pushing up on his tiptoes to give him a kiss before slapping his hands away and turning back to the task, getting out milk and honey. "Now tell me what your pack had to say."

"Everyone is concerned," says Steve, leaning up on the counter to watch Bucky as he prepares the tea. "Pierce returning to New York is a problem, especially if he has vested interest in a human family."

Bucky hums, spooning out honey into each mug. "So they're taking this seriously. Good."

"We all are." Steve crowds him a little, stepping up behind Bucky to circle him with his arms, and another wave of warmth sweeps through him. Even with regular feedings from his clients, Bucky has never felt quite like this before. As if he could actually pass for human, blood thrumming under his skin. As if he concentrated hard enough, he could will his heart to start beating again. "If they spot anything, they'll let me know immediately. They're prepared to protect your family if it comes down to that."

Bucky ducks his head, pouring milk into each mug and stirring. He leans back into Steve and gets squeezed reassuringly. "I don't want any of them fighting battles on my behalf."

"I doubt Pierce will initiate anything without you there. He might lurk a little more in plain sight, to ensure you know he's serious. We'll be there, Buck." Steve kisses the top of his head. "I promise you."

"Last time," begins Bucky, swallowing against his own fear. "Last time when you had to kill one of my kind...how did you do it?"

Bucky has his ideas, of course, but the truth is he's only really determined that sunlight burns. He's never been brave enough to ask Carol, too afraid of what it might reveal about him, and there was no one else in his life he could ask. 

Steve tenses for a moment, but Bucky can tell he makes an effort to come down from it, to relax against Bucky. He doesn't ask the question Bucky knows he must want to ask. Instead, he says, "A fey witch helped. She bound him so he couldn't run away—vampires are fast. While you can't match my strength, you could outrun me every day of the week. Once he was bound to a certain area, it was a matter of surrounding him. I only got to him first by chance. When I did, I..." he hesitates, maybe because Bucky can feel himself trembling.

Bucky clears his throat. "Go on, please."

"I used a wooden dagger. That part of the myth is true. I pierced him through the heart and he fell, lifeless before me. We worked with another vampire, at the time, and she instructed us to burn the body. She said it was necessary. I didn't ask why."

Bucky swallows, nodding his head. It's what he might have guessed, but it is good to know for certain, the only way to kill him. "We'll need the right weapons, then."

"Good point,” says Steve. “I should call the local coven. The fey, they're traditionally the keepers of the balance, well-versed in supernatural affairs. They're not immortal, but they are long-lived. The oldest witch I know of is older than almost anyone in my pack, nearing a thousand."

Bucky isn't fully listening. He doesn't know anything about witches or covens or fey. Are those all synonyms? Bucky doesn’t even know _that_. Steve does, though, and Steve will take care of this part. Organizing. While Bucky smarts a little from repeated reminders that he's been left to isolate himself from all knowledge of even his own weaknesses and physical limitations. 

A wooden weapon. Fire. Classic, really. Something the movies got right. He's not indestructible. He's always known that, shielding himself from the warmth of the sun, but confronted with the reality of true death... 

He says, "I trust you," and leaves it at that. Steve makes some more calls, while Bucky sits at the table and sips at his tea. 

It's a grey, overcast day, the sky heavy with rain, and so when Steve quietly suggests they go see some people he knows, that the coven is expecting them, he puts on a coat with a deep hood, and grabs his sunglasses. 

"How do you know all these people?" Bucky mutters, as they wait on the curb for a cab. 

"A well-connected pack on friendly terms with other groups of power is a successful pack,” Steve says easily. “A member of my pack is also a witch of this coven." He glances at Bucky, a sympathetic twist to his lips that should irritate Bucky beyond all measure. "Like I said, there's a balance. Most of us are just trying to maintain it. Creatures like Pierce are a threat to everyone."

Bucky bites his lip. "I wish—"

"Buck, it's okay."

"No, let me finish," he insists. He _wants_ to say this to Steve. They wait for the car to pull up, and Bucky's glad for the delay, because he doesn't think he could get this out in front of anyone. "I wish I'd known you when I was first made. I wish we could have crossed paths, so I wouldn’t have been so afraid to interact with anyone like me. I wish I hadn't been a coward."

Steve is quiet while he speaks, but he reaches out, taking Bucky's hand and tugging him close. "I wish I'd known you then too, but I don't think you're a coward. I think you're a survivor. You had no way of knowing the rest of us weren't exactly like Pierce, out to use you or hurt you. You did what you had to do."

Bucky sags against him, allowing himself the comfort. "I suppose." 

Steve brushes a kiss to his cheek, and when the car pulls up, he opens the door for Bucky. "Come on, I think you'll like the witches. They love to give me a hard time."

"I already have something in common with them, then," Bucky mutters, ducking into the car. Steve settles beside him, taking Bucky's hand in both of his. 

The coven is, apparently, not far—they get dropped off in Greenwich Village, right across from Washington Square Park. Students rush past in the early morning chill, and Bucky instinctively steps closer to Steve, finding himself on edge at being out so early when normally he'd be bundled away in his apartment, getting ready to bed down for the day. 

"Come on," says Steve, taking his hand. "It's not far."

"There's really an entire coven of witches in Greenwich Village?" Bucky asks as they walk.

"They come and go," says Steve, taking him away from the park. "The shop started as a front. I don't think they anticipated it becoming so successful, but people are very into crystals and tarot cards these days."

"Wait," says Bucky, suspicion filtering in. He's—he’s definitely been this way before. Not just this neighbourhood, of course he's been here before, but there's a kitschy little new age store right around the corner, isn't there?

They turn left, and the purple and gold facade is exactly where he's expecting it to be. Bucky tightens his grip on Steve's hand, tugging a little. "Wait, Steve, I've—"

"It's okay," says Steve. "I've known Carol most of my life."

The store shouldn't be open yet, according to the sign, but as Steve grabs the handle to let them in, it's clear the door isn't locked despite the CLOSED sign in the window. The heavy scent of incense fills Bucky's noise, a chime tinkling overhead as the door closes behind them. 

"Wait," Bucky says. "Steve, no—I've been here before."

"What?" Steve blinks at him. "When?"

"Years ago. This can't be the same—"

"...James?"

Bucky turns to the tiny blonde woman that just emerged from behind a thick velvet curtain. " _Carol_?"

"Obviously," she says, a twist to her lips, amusement in her eyes as she takes in her visitors. 

"But I—I met you twenty years ago. You look the same." It's silly, he supposes. It's not as if Bucky ages, but he's so used to seeing everyone he knows slowly decay around him, the years lining their faces, hunching their backs, breaking them down in at least body, if not sometimes in spirit, too. 

"Yup. And you haven't aged a day yourself,” Carol says smartly. “I guess that salve I gave you to help with sun exposure worked."

Bucky had been on a beach vacation in Maui with a suitor and drifted by the pool too close to dawn. He woke up as soon as the sun hit his skin, but he'd been an ugly red for days, and terrified it would be permanently disfiguring. This shop was the only one to come up for vampire medical care when he'd found it listed in the yellow pages. 

"It definitely worked. You're fey, then? Steve was telling me that's what witches are?" he asks, amazed. 

"Yes, of course I am. You weren't aware before, when we met? Did you think a human just had magic?" She lifts an eyebrow, but she doesn't seem actually offended. 

Bucky’s cheeks flush. He’s so ignorant. "I'm sorry, I just...I didn't realize."

"The reason for that is why we're here, Carol. Is Wanda in?" asks Steve, speaking up.

"Out. Not sure when she’ll be back," says Carol, her sharp gaze flicking to Steve instead, and Bucky is grateful for the reprieve in the face of his horrific embarrassment. He supposes he should be grateful that Carol didn't immediately peg him for an ignorant fool when they first met. 

They follow Carol through the curtain, which leads into a cluttered back room that seems to function as a break area. A kettle on the stove is steaming gently, and candles burn on every surface. "We have another visitor, though. Through here," says Carol. They file through another curtain, taking a set of creaky stairs down into a warm, cozy basement. "Someone you're familiar with."

"There you are," says a redhead with a husky voice, rising from a table and closing an enormous leather book. She's tiny as well, with bright green eyes and sharp features. 

"Natasha," breathes Steve. "I didn't know you were in town."

"Tea?" asks Carol brightly, gesturing them inside, "Coffee?"

"No, thanks," says Steve, but he doesn't look away from Natasha. "Not for me."

"I'm fine, thank you," murmurs Bucky. He steps in close to Steve, anxious and unsettled, and is warmed by the hand Steve settles at the small of his back. 

"Come in," says Natasha. "Sit down."

Bucky glances at the seat and then at Natasha. He shakes his head. "You're not fey."

"No, I'm a vampire, like you," she agrees. "But I work with this coven often."

Bucky tries to keep his frustration contained. "Please, I don't have a lot of time. I don't want to be rude, but my family is in danger, and Steve says you can help."

Carol looks at Steve. "Making promises for fey, are we?"

"I wouldn't presume to do that, Carol," says Steve, tipping his head in acknowledgement. There's something about the deference of that gesture that makes it clear Steve deeply respects these women. 

Natasha makes a considering noise before she turns back to Bucky. "I understand you're in a hurry, but you'll sit anyway, please. Fey like Carol prefer to get the measure of the people they help first, and me, well, I admit to my own curiosity."

Bucky sets his jaw, gritting his teeth, and lets the tension ripple through him before he forcibly releases it. Steve's hand is warm at his back. If Steve brought him here, then he needs to trust in his judgement. 

He sits, hands clenched tightly in his lap. Every bit of energy he's putting off must be unpleasant and tense, but hopefully not combative. He feels about ready to vibrate out of his skin. Steve sits next to him, a hand landing on his thigh and squeezing gently. Bucky avoids looking at Steve's earnest expression, because if he does, he'll well up. Pathetic. 

"Fine," Bucky says tightly. "We're sitting. Would you like to hook up a lie detector? Take a saliva sample?" Oops. He swallows back another round of snippy sarcasm, but Natasha doesn't even blink. Carol makes a bitten-off noise like she's suppressing laughter as she returns from the storage room carrying a box that looks as if it's made of brass or dingy gold. 

"Nothing nearly so invasive, Mr. Barnes," Natasha says smoothly. "Unless you're interested in topping up some of the rarer potion ingredients Carol keeps stocked here."

Bucky huffs. "You know my name already."

"Well, you were a customer once." Carol shrugs.

"In 1998," he huffs, but resists crossing his arms. 

"Well, we have pretty good memories. We also have a vested interest in the supernatural, in magic and mysticism. It's our—business," says Carol.

Natasha smirks. "Your puns are getting to be as old as we are."

Carol rolls her eyes. "We know you because you've been in the papers with Steve. You've been very noticeable lately."

It hits Bucky then, why Pierce is only showing up again now, after two centuries—why he suddenly has an interest in Bucky’s life and family. He saw Bucky in the papers. He saw him thriving and wanted to take it away. 

"That rat bastard," Bucky hisses, fear and anger twisting his mouth into a snarl. He digs his nails into his knees. "That possessive piece of shit."

"Alexander Pierce," Steve says quietly to Natasha. "You remember."

"Unfortunately," says Natasha, raising an eyebrow at them both. "He made you?"

" _Unfortunately_ ," Bucky tosses back. "He did."

"Buck," Steve says gently. "Hey. Look at me."

Bucky doesn't know why he obeys. Why he doesn't snap at Steve to cut it out with the soft words, the obvious attempt to pacify him in front of two complete unknowns. Steve may trust them, but Bucky only trusts Steve. Still. He purses his lips and cuts his gaze to Steve, taking in warm blue eyes and a sympathetic expression. His stiff shoulders loosen as he slumps in his seat. 

"He's trying to get in your head," Steve says. "But he doesn't own a single bit of you, and he knows it."

Bucky gives that a chance to sink in, concentrating on the thrum of Steve's blood in his own chest. Finally, he nods. "You're right, I'm—" he hesitates, and then turns toward Natasha. "I am sorry for being short with you. I haven't seen or heard from Pierce in two hundred years, since he showed up to express his disappointment in me for not murdering my family after he turned me. Recently, however, I've discovered that he's returned, and he seems to be taking an interest in my family."

"Oh," says Carol, setting the box down on the table and putting her hands on her hips. "That makes sense. Vampires are _obsessed_ with legacy."

"Yes," agrees Bucky. "I've noticed that much, at least." The handful of times he has run into other vampires over the years, he's been soundly dismissed because he never had a proper introduction to vampire society via his maker. Snobby assholes.

Natasha opens the box away from Bucky, closing it again before he can see the contents. "Then you want to kill your maker for revenge."

"No,” Bucky scoffs. “I don't care about revenge; I care about my family. I want them safe and I care that Pierce never does to someone else what he's done to me and countless others."

That earns him a smile. "Correct answer."

His immediate reaction is to scowl. "You're testing me?"

Natasha shrugs. "Getting a sense of you, like I said."

"I know you helped Steve kill one of Pierce's fledglings," Bucky says pointedly. "That was you, right? Which means you know Pierce is a problem. Even if I wasn't coming to you like this, you should want to stop him."

"Right again," Natasha says, with a very sharp smile. "Luckily, you are coming to us like this. We'd have far fewer options, without you."

Bucky glances at Carol, who continues to smile at them all, and then back to Natasha. "What does that mean?"

"Pierce made you." It's Carol who speaks, this time. "He used his blood to turn you. Like it or not, your very existence is tied to him. That's very good for us, who need something tangible from our target to craft any sort of spell. We'd need Pierce's blood to track and bind him, for example. Or..." she says, raising an eyebrow. 

"You'd need my blood," Bucky finishes. "That's it?"

"It must be willingly given, and believe it or not, most vampires are very stingy with their blood," says Carol. "Especially feral fledglings."

Bucky blinks. "Am I—am I truly the only one he turned who didn't go mad with thirst?"

"As far as we know." Natasha gives him a serious look. "You're very strong, Mr. Barnes. It would have been almost impossible to resist the urge to feed without your maker there to guide you, to give you blood from a safe source."

Bucky trembles. "My sister, she went to the butcher's and got pig's blood, fresh as she could. It was disgusting, but it—"

"It was filling, and you did what you had to do." Natasha's smile is warmer now. "It's impressive. And now you can help us stop him for good, if you want."

"I do," he says immediately. He brings his hands to the table and lays them in front of him, palms up. "What do you need me to do?"

"Open a vein," Natasha says lightly. This time, when she opens the box, she turns it towards Bucky. The gleaming tools inside look like they're made of brass. She extracts a slim blade and a small bowl. "The spell doesn’t require much. By the time it heals over naturally, we'll have enough for our purposes."

"Fine," says Bucky, extending his arm across the table. "Do it."

"That's clear enough," Carol says. 

"It is," Natasha agrees. She takes Bucky's hand in hers, turning his wrist over the bowl. "Ready?"

"I'm not squeamish," Bucky says flatly. "And I don't mind pain."

Carol turns her face away, stifling a snort. Before Bucky can comment, Natasha drags the blade in a short, shallow one-inch line over the tender skin of Bucky's wrist. She opens the vein, and he watches as fresh blood spills over into the waiting vessel. 

"It's mostly Steve's, anyway," Bucky mutters. 

"It was," Carol says, watching carefully. "Functionally, though, it's yours. Once you feed, your body processes the donor's blood. It's not borrowed. It's yours. It undergoes what's effectively a chemical reaction. Otherwise, this spell wouldn't work."

Bucky opens his mouth and then closes it again, watching as his blood drips down, red pooling over golden brass. There's so much about himself he doesn't know. It only makes him more certain than ever he's doing the right thing. No one should have to face down centuries alone and afraid. 

Bucky looks to Steve. "Thank you for staying with me."

"There's nowhere else I'd want to be." He gives Bucky's thigh another squeeze and looks him over. "Feeling okay? Do you need to feed again?"

Bucky can't help but laugh. "I had plenty before, Steve. What, you want to give these ladies a show?"

Steve turns a very endearing shade of pink and both Natasha and Carol chuckle.

"You were right," Steve murmurs, clearing his throat. "You do all have something in common."

Bucky smiles, casting a knowing look at Natasha and Carol. "Giving him a hard time," he says, leaning in a little, conspiratorial. 

"Truly my favourite pastime," Carol says with a cheeky grin. 

"All done," says Natasha, and Bucky blinks, startled, as she swipes over his bloodied skin with a clean cloth. The wound has closed over already, just a thin pink line remaining that will fade over the next half hour. 

"Really? Is that enough?" Bucky asks, peering at the shallow bowl. "I can—"

"It's plenty," Carol says, taking the blade and cleaning it before packing it away again. "Why don't you two go wait upstairs in the back room? Make that tea you turned down earlier. I need some time, here, and it's best you don't hover."

"Okay," he agrees. "I want to call and check on my family anyway."

"Yes, Sam and Riley should have arrived by now." Steve stands with him, his hand drifting to Bucky's back again, guiding him back up the stairs to the back room. 

Bucky unlocks his phone while Steve heads over to the electric kettle. No missed calls, but Bucky finds Judith's name in his contacts and dials.

"Oh Bucky!" she answers. "I was just about to call you."

"Why? Did something happen? Is it Pierce?" he asks, already moving toward the door.

"No, no—I mean, I don't think so?" She sighs, sounding annoyed. "It's just that I can't get a hold of Jacob. He went back to classes on Tuesday and he's been understandably busy, but neither his parents nor any of the rest of the family have heard from him since yesterday. But he's irresponsible sometimes, loses his phone, or goes to the library and shuts it off to study. I just—"

"I can go check on him, Judith. Don't worry. We haven't left town yet and I'm not far from NYU now. Why don't you text me his dorm and I'll see if I can find him?" suggests Bucky. It's fine. Pierce was at the farm, not in the city. He wants someone there. Jacob's perfectly safe, surely.

"I'm sure he's just at the library," says Judith. "But if it's not too much trouble..."

"No trouble at all," Bucky says firmly. 

They hang up, and a moment later, he receives a text with Jacob's details. His stomach flips over nervously as he looks over at Steve, who sets down the two mugs he's found. 

"Did you catch all that?" says Bucky. 

"Yeah," says Steve. "Let me just warn Carol before we leave. We'll come back this way when we're done. He's fine, Buck. He's just being a kid."

Bucky nods. "Sure. We'll check in and get him to call his grandmother, and then...."

"Then we'll drop by, the spell will be ready, and we can head to the farm. Okay?" says Steve.

"Yeah, okay, let's hurry, though." Bucky wants to lay eyes on this kid sooner rather than later, wants to make sure the rush of anxiety is nothing more than misplaced protectiveness. God, this is why he avoided them so long. The fear of losing any of them is a nauseous pit in his stomach, a sensation he hasn't felt in ages. 

Steve disappears down the stairs and Bucky can hear the murmur of voices, but he's back quickly and gesturing toward the door. "Let's go. The dorm she mentioned is just a few blocks over and even if he's not there, I can catch his scent. It'll be easier to find him in the library then."

"Oh, good idea." 

Steve smiles at him and takes his hand, leading him out the door.

It's a beautiful day, crisp and cool. People are out enjoying the weather, the sidewalks full, but Steve and Bucky navigate it quickly, centuries of experience guiding their feet swiftly through the crowds. They arrive at the dorms and follow a careless student in through the locked doors, but when they reach Jacob's room, they both share a glance. "How—" "Should we just—"

Steve shakes his head. "I'll go in, since you can't without his permission."

Bucky leans up against the door frame, arms wrapped around himself, while Steve knocks gently on the door. When there's no response, he tries the handle. 

"Unlocked," he murmurs, glancing sidelong at Bucky. 

"Students are careless," Bucky says, staring sightlessly at the wall opposite him. "He probably left it unlocked to go...shower or....to get some food."

Steve makes a noncommittal noise, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Bucky just waits. If there's something to see, he doesn't want to witness it himself. It's one other thing Steve can shoulder for him. 

A moment later, Steve emerges. "Nobody," he says. "Nothing's disturbed, either, except..."

"What?" demands Bucky, turning to look up at him. 

"This was on the bed," says Steve, handing him a piece of paper. 

Bucky almost doesn't want to take it. At the same time, he's helpless to do anything other than accept the—photograph, he realizes. Fragile, faded, the edges frayed, but still preserving a moment in time Bucky thought was lost. 

He recognizes himself, of course, in the center, and he makes an involuntary noise. Surrounding him are his family. And while Bucky is the same age he will be forever, the rest of his family, including Becca, his twin, have continued to age around him. When he turns the photograph over, he finds an ink-stained annotation on the back: "Barnes family, 1836."

16 years after he was turned. Becca was 36, married almost as long as Bucky had been undead, her children around her. 

Nobody in the photo was smiling. It hadn't been the custom, then, to smile for photographs at all. Solemn gravity is etched into each small face, while Bucky's expression is one of sorrow, not seriousness. 

"I thought this was lost," he says, the rough scratch of his own voice surprising him. He looks back at Steve. "My family wouldn't have this. Jacob wouldn't—this is... This is a message. From Pierce."

Steve’s face, when Bucky manages to rip his attention from the photograph, looks grim. “We should return to the shop, see if they’ve finished the spell. It’s our best chance of finding Pierce quickly.”

“Right, of course.” Bucky wonders if his voice is really as shaky as it sounds to himself. He’s not physically trembling, though. He feels—oddly calm. He clears his throat. “Let’s go.”

They’re around the corner from the shop when Steve’s phone rings. “It’s Natasha,” he says, sliding to answer. “We’re almost back. We know he’s in town. Yeah, he left...a message, for Bucky.” Reaching out to take Bucky’s hand, Steve gives him a squeeze and adds, “We’ll see you in a moment.”

Bucky squeezes back, grateful for the brief comfort. It’s odd, he supposes. When he first met Steve, he would have snarled and hissed, his back up like an agitated cat. Now, though, he pulls strength from it. He’s not alone. It’s not pity. It’s—it’s care, affection and devotion. It’s maybe something even bigger than that, but creatures like them have no need to rush into words for the sake of them. 

He dismisses the idle thought, mind turning to Jacob again. Fuck, if something happens to him, if he’s turned or hurt— 

His one solace is that Pierce will want to put on a show, he’ll want Bucky to see himself fail. Maybe he’s even hoping Jacob will kill Bucky—or vice versa—a wicked punishment for Bucky’s failure to Pierce. 

No. It won’t happen like that. Bucky won’t let it. Steve and Natasha and Carol will be there, and they’ll help him. Bucky is going to rip Pierce’s throat out, push a wooden blade between his ribs and pierce his heart. He’s going to see Pierce burn.

Carol and Natasha are waiting for them when they return to the shop. 

He's not interested in conversation, or details. "Where?" he grits out, fangs dropping. When he clenches his fists, his nails are sharp against his palms. 

"Central Park," Natasha says crisply. "Somewhere in the Ramble. We need to move fast."

"He's waiting for me to get there," Bucky says dismissively. "He wants me to see. I need—"

"Here," says Carol, offering him an ornate wooden dagger. It's beautifully carved, the wood smoothed to a fine, wicked point. 

Bucky takes it, tucking it into his jacket. "Thank you."

They catch a cab to the park, and Bucky gives in to being handled. Steve keeps a hand at the small of his back or on his thigh during the ride, even though Bucky ignores him to stare out the window, finding he's not fully present in his body. This doesn't feel real. He's overstimulated, enduring too much change after existing in self-imposed purgatory for decades. 

When they get out on the corner of 5th and the 79th Street Transverse, Bucky turns to the three of them and says, "I want to kill him. Just get Jacob out of there. Unless I'm permanently incapactitated, leave Pierce to me."

"He's yours," Natasha murmurs. 

Steve leads, once they enter the park. Bucky knows the way, but Steve's walking with purpose. 

The early morning chill has lingered, the sky a deep overcast grey as thick clouds roll in; when they reach the Ramble, mist clings to trees, and the sounds of the city die away. Bucky used to come here when he was younger, looking for the illusion of privacy, disappearing into the thick woodland and following the paths to avoid other people, sitting on benches for hours and hours. 

"Caught a scent," Steve says quietly. "We're close."

Bucky hisses, tongue sliding over sharp incisors. He wants to tear into Pierce, rend flesh from bone. He wants to destroy him. 

“This way.” The words are whisper soft, Steve’s head nodding in the right direction. As they move in that direction he adds, “I can hear a heartbeat—slow and steady. He must not be conscious.”

“That’s—that’s probably good,” Bucky hears himself say as if from a distance. “Pierce won’t hear the rest of you, not yet. We’re outside of the range of our senses. You three...you should flank him, go around. I’ll confront him head on. He’s expecting me.”

Steve hums, clearly unhappy about this directive, but finally he nods. 

He drops back behind Bucky as they grow closer, and distantly, Bucky hears them all break off. Just as he pushes through a particularly dense patch of foliage, a scene of personal horror greets him. Pierce stands nearby, with Jacob at his feet. 

“James!” he calls out, a manic sort of grin on his face. “So good of you to join us.”

Bucky lets his eyes burn bright, snarling at Pierce. “Let him go.”

“Oh, no, not at all. I think I’ll quite enjoy trading in the old for the new. Did you know this young Barnes intends to be a doctor?” His smile sharpens. “Imagine his despair when he realizes the destruction he’s wrought in my honor...”

“You are vile.” Bucky’s hands flex at his side. “You’re a _monster_.”

“So are we all, dear James. It is in our nature.” Pierce’s eyes begin to glow as well, his fangs lengthening. “It is our right.”

"None of this is necessary," Bucky snarls. "Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should. But you're beyond that, aren't you, Alexander? You probably never had a soul to begin with. You don't see people, you don't see lives."

Pierce's smug smirk twists into real anger. "Of course I see people. Their lives sustain me. That's how it's supposed to be. But you never embraced what you are. You clung desperately to your humanity even after it died, and it made you insignificant. A cowardly failure. I should have known you'd be too soft. I should have just let you die. You never deserved the gift I gave you. All that power....squandered."

"I haven't squandered anything," mutters Bucky. "I'm going to kill you with it."

Bucky's never seen Pierce fight. He's counting on speed; he knows his own potential, and limits, and Pierce is much, much older than he is. His power has grown over centuries, fed by violence, while Bucky has languished in a state of depressed limbo. 

Still. He's young, and fresh, and when he feeds, the nourishment is freely given. 

When he moves, it's with untapped potential. As the mist rolls in, rain begins to fall, and the mundane march of time falls away. Bucky cuts left, forcing Pierce to mirror him if he wants to keep Bucky in his direct line of sight, and when Bucky leaps, Pierce meets him, and they hit the ground like vicious tigers caught in a territorial grapple. 

Even as Pierce lands a ringing blow to Bucky's head, Bucky can tell that while Pierce is much stronger than him, Bucky is faster. He twists out of his grip, landing a hit against Pierce's ribs, raking his claws through Pierce's powder blue suit. 

"I'm going to enjoy this," Pierce growls, his teeth inches from Bucky's throat as he pins him to the ground. "Keeping you alive just long enough for him to kill you. He's going to have such a lovely time tearing his way through this park."

Bucky hisses, breaking free with a knee to Pierce's groin and rolling out from under him. He lands on all fours, looking up to find Pierce already on his feet, looming over him. His eyes burn crimson as he bares his fangs at Bucky.

"Pathetic," he snarls. "You are my biggest disappointment, James."

Bucky dodges his next kick, rolling out from under him and bouncing easily back to his feet.

“That’s practically a compliment coming from you.” 

Pierce sneers, dusting an imaginary bit of dust from his lapel. “Unimaginative, as expected.”

Bucky dives at him again, intent on knocking him to the ground. He just needs one moment, one show of weakness and he can end this all. Pierce isn’t fast enough to sidestep him, so he doesn’t try. He catches Bucky around the throat with a roar, slamming his back against a tree. Bucky scrabbles at his hold, kicking and hissing as Pierce’s claws dig into his flesh.

He’s about to shove away from the tree when movement behind Pierce catches his eye. If Pierce is distracted, it could give Bucky the opening he needs. One moment. He can do this. “I don’t need to imagine your death, Alexander, because I’m going to see it with my own two eyes.”

Pierce laughs, low and cruel. His nail prick into Bucky's throat, blood welling up under his fingers. "I didn't think you still had hope. It would almost be sweet, if it wasn't so pitiful."

"I'll tear your throat out with my teeth," hisses Bucky, clawing at Pierce's arms with his hands. He kicks out, landing a solid blow to Pierce's gut, but Pierce doesn't even grunt, his own bloodied teeth bared as he holds Bucky in place. 

"Wretched thing," Pierce says softly. "You need to be put down. Don't worry. You'll be replaced with something better." 

Bucky grins madly at Pierce. "And you shouldn't have assumed I'm here alone. Get your hearing checked, old man.”

Brief shock flickers over Pierce's face, the confidence falling away into uncertainty. His grip on Bucky's throat loosens, and another solid kick allows him to squirm free. He twists his head to look over his shoulder just as Steve bursts out of the underbrush in a golden blur. 

And, _oh_ , he's beautiful. 

It's the first time Bucky's seen him fully transformed, a massive blond wolf with blazing amber eyes. He barrels into Pierce, jaws closing ruthlessly around the hand Pierce had wrapped around Bucky's throat. They tumble and roll onto the grass, Pierce landing heavily onto his back.

It's the opening Bucky has been waiting for.

He grasps the dagger, drawing it out of his coat. Pierce only manages to prop himself back up onto one elbow before Bucky pounces, blade extended. 

Pierce catches his wrist, blocking the strike, but Bucky just leans into the momentum, rolling them both over one, twice, bringing his weight down on top of Pierce in the dirt. He redirects his rage, lashing out with all the loneliness and fear and grief that's been building inside him for two centuries. Vampires don't feed on each other, but Bucky doesn't want to consume Pierce, he wants to destroy him. 

When his teeth tear into Pierce's vulnerable throat, Bucky jerks his head, rending flesh and cracking bone. 

The iron grip of Pierce's hand around Bucky's wrist goes limp, and Bucky drives the wooden blade into Pierce's dead heart.


	11. Steve

Steve watches in fascinated wonder as Bucky launches himself at Pierce one final time, his body an elegant blur, made for speed. 

He crashes into Pierce’s prone form and they go tumbling, end over end, and just as Steve’s about to intervene, he watches as Bucky’s teeth tear into Pierce with vicious glory. The dagger finds its home in Pierce’s chest and then Bucky rises, bloody-mouthed and beautiful. Steve bounds forward, shifting from one stride to the next, wrapping Bucky up in his arms.

Bucky seems stunned, jerking his head to look at Steve in shock. Like this, smeared with blood and wet from the rain, his eyes blazing blue, he looks every inch the supernatural creature he’s never allowed himself to be. “Steve—I—”

“Buck,” Steve breathes. “You were—you were incredible. You did it. You stopped him.”

“I—I did, didn’t I?” Bucky blinks up at Steve, his eyes flickering back to clear gray, before he directs his attention to Pierce’s crumpled figure, the rain collecting on his rapidly wrinkling skin. He looks....old, as if all the years of his long, evil life are catching up to him at once, Dorian Gray forced to look at his painting. It’s grotesque. 

“We should burn him,” says Carol, emerging from the trees to join them. “We have a place we can take him, a crematorium with connections to the coven...for ingredients, mostly, but also for these rare occasions of, ahem, necessary disposal.”

Natasha is behind her, Steve’s clothes in her arms. Bucky is dazed, not having noticed Steve’s nudity, but Steve accepts the bundle from Natasha as she passes him, heading for Pierce.

“Oh—Jacob!” cries Bucky, staggered by sudden realization. He pulls away to join Carol in kneeling down to check on him. “Is he okay?”

She bends down beside him, small but capable hands working across his form. “Yes, he seems okay. There’s a bite—”

Bucky moans, clutching at Jacob’s hand. 

“Easy,” Carol murmurs. “He’s nowhere near drained. Pulse is good. He’s probably weak from blood loss, but so long as he survives, there’s no risk to him turning. We should get him to a hospital, though.”

Bucky nods. “I’ll call Judith, let her know the coast is clear and she can come down with his parents.”

Dressed again, Steve looks to Natasha, who is bent over Pierce, no doubt ensuring he’s really gone. Taking a breath, Steve says, “I’ll help Natasha with the body. You two get him to the hospital. Buck, I’ll meet you back at your place later, okay?”

Bucky hesitates, looking up at Steve with pale eyes, silvery-gray under the dark sky. Rain beats down more heavily, soaking through their clothes, matting down Bucky's long, thick hair. It’s smearing the blood on his face.

"Steve," he says, faltering. "I..."

"Come here for a second," Steve says, pulling Bucky back to his feet. "You've got...a little something." He wants to kiss him. He wants to crash their mouths together, and lick Bucky clean, wants to rip his clothes off and devour him right here in the middle of the park, but instead he pulls out a handkerchief, dabbing at Bucky's parted lips until the worst of it has been wiped away. "There," he says gently. "That's better. Go on. Take care of Jacob."

"My place," Bucky confirms, squeezing at Steve's hand with trembling fingers. "Later."

He watches as Bucky scoops Jacob gently into his arms, cradling him against his chest, Carol beside him as they turn to leave the way they came. 

With a sigh, he turns to Natasha, finding her still crouched by Pierce's desiccated corpse, frowning down at him. 

"That was impressive," she says mildly, when Steve kneels down to join her. "Truth be told, I thought we'd all need to bail him out. For a pacifist that's never taken a life, he certainly didn't hesitate."

Steve bristles a little. "Was he supposed to have mercy?"

"No," says Natasha, a smile playing at her lips. "Like I said, I'm impressed."

Steve rumbles, unable to help himself. 

Natasha laughs. "So you were impressed too."

"That's not exactly the word for it, but...something like that," he allows, mouth curling up despite himself. 

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Werewolves are so gross. You probably wanted to fuck him right here on the ground."

Steve shrugs, unashamed. "Are we going to collect this piece of filth, here, or what?"

"I've got someone on the way. We’re going to load him up into an ambulance to make it as above board as possible." Natasha gestures with her phone, tucking it back away. 

Steve nods. “Good. I want to see him burn. I need to be able to tell Bucky he's gone forever."

"You got it, champ." She stands, hip cocked out and arms crossed. "So you've finally fallen for someone again, huh?"

Steve makes a soft noise, feeling a blush fill his cheeks. "Bucky is—important to me, yes."

Natasha's laugh is a low, smoky thing. She raises an eyebrow. "Well, well. Good for you. Your mother is going to be delighted. She’s so worried about the state of your personal life."

"Oh god, don't—don't tell her, please, Nat,” Steve pleads. “I'm going to tell her, of course I am, but she'll want to meet him immediately and he's definitely not ready for that. It’s only been a few weeks." He rubs a hand over his face. "Please. Don’t tell her yet. As a favor to me?"

"Fine, fine," says Natasha dismissively, waving him off. "It'll be more fun to hear about her reaction when you let her know you've gone and fallen for a vampire. It's sweet."

Steve sighs heavily and stands. "Glad you're amused."

"What, I can't be happy for you?" Natasha says dryly. "I've never seen you like this before. Smitten. It's nice."

Steve grunts, prompting a bright laugh from Natasha, but before she can respond, two EMTs appear around the corner with a stretcher. 

"That was fast," murmurs Steve, giving Natasha a pointed look. 

"Ideally we'd like to get an old man with a chewed up throat out of here as fast as possible before a civilian sees him, don't you think?" replies Natasha, waving the EMTs closer. "C'mon, Romeo."

The EMTs say nothing, don't even blink at the corpse they're faced with, getting him loaded onto the stretcher and covered with a sheet in less than five minutes. Steve and Nastasha follow them back to the nearest road, where the ambulance is waiting, and ride along with the EMTs to a funeral home on the corner of Madison Avenue and East 81st Street. 

The EMTs accompany them inside, exchanging brief words with the funeral director who greets them, before unloading Pierce and departing with a short nod to Natasha. Steve keeps silent, letting Natasha do the minimal talking required, and eventually they stand aside while the cremation technician prepares the body for the cremator. 

"I don't even want to know how you managed to get this arranged so quickly," Steve says quietly to Natasha. "Nobody asks questions? At all?"

"The funeral director we spoke to earlier is a friend of a friend," she replies with a shrug. "What's the point of being alive so long if you don't have connections for a time like this, hm?"

Steve keeps his eyes on the body, half convinced Pierce will suddenly lurch up with teeth bared, despite the fact that he looks like no more than a husk, at this point. He exhales shakily only when he's loaded into the furnace, flames licking up around the box he'd been placed in. 

"Easy, big guy," Natasha says gently, patting him on the shoulder. "It's over. Really."

Steve forces himself to breathe in and out, slow and steady. "Yeah, I—I just don't want him to ever have to worry again. I don't want any of us to need to worry."

She gives his arm a quick squeeze before her hand drops away. "We won't. He won't. We're free of this particular worry."

Nodding, Steve finally turns away. "I should go. I want to get cleaned up. Have you heard from Carol?"

Natasha pulls out her phone, flicking through it. "Yes, she's left the hospital now and is back at the shop. Wanda's there now, too, if you want to see her. Carol left Bucky to wait for his family. The boy is fine, already awake and eager to get back to his dorm. He doesn’t remember anything about what happened."

"Good," breathes Steve, nodding. "Good. Thank you."

"Come on," says Natasha, jerking her head towards the hallway. "Let's get out of here. Thanks, Jim." She salutes the technician, who waves them off, and Steve follows. 

He says goodbye to Natasha on the street, promising he'll be in touch soon, and they part ways, Natasha grabbing a cab, while Steve walks to Bucky's apartment, texting him on the way. 

**Steve** : hey, honey. all done, as promised. watched it happen myself.  
**Bucky** : thanks.  
**Steve** : you need me to come to the hospital?  
**Bucky** : no im fine. judith isn't here yet and I want to see my family alone. explain myself.  
**Steve** : okay. if you're sure.  
**Bucky** : let yourself in. I'll be there in an hour.  
**Steve** : take your time, buck.

When he gets to Bucky's place, he lets himself up, confronted at the door by a yowling Alpine.

"I know, I know," Steve says, smiling crookedly at her. "I'm not Bucky. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you officially, though. I’ve heard a lot about you."

The little white cat has no adverse reaction to him, instead winding aggressively between his legs and boldly headbutting his ankles, before dismissing him entirely and disappearing down the hall into Bucky's bedroom. Steve sighs. Well, at least she doesn’t hate him. 

He orders takeout, so that there's food for Bucky when he gets home, and then takes a quick shower to clean up.

Dirt swirls down the drain, evidence of his brief transformation and tumble through the woods, and Steve comes out smelling much better, skin pink from the heat. He towels roughly at his hair, another towel slung around his hips as he makes his way into the bedroom. Throwing his damp clothes into the dryer, Steve steals a clean shirt and a pair of shorts that are entirely too small on him from Bucky’s dresser, but they at least prevent him from answering the door naked when the food arrives.

Steve is setting out takeout containers in the kitchen when Alpine reappears and starts meowing continuously as she boldly weaves in and out between his legs. "I'm sorry, I don't know what food to give you, little girl," he says. "Your dad will be home soon."

As if on cue, Steve hears the distant sound of the elevator whirring, heading back up toward the penthouse, undoubtedly bringing Bucky with it. 

When the doors ding open, Bucky steps out looking—well, like Bucky, though his hair is frizzy from the rain, and his clothes are still damp. There's still a flush to his skin from Steve's blood, though, and the sight makes Steve's heart hammer against his ribs.

Bucky looks a little dazed, and he steps out of the entryway and then stops abruptly in the hall, blinking owlishly at Steve. 

"Hey," says Steve, sweeping in. He takes both of Bucky's hands in his, squeezing them, and leans down to press a soft kiss to his pouty lips. "You okay?"

Bucky blinks at him again, his expression open and vulnerable. His eyes look wet, rimmed red around the edges, and as Steve examines him, he notices all the little details that speak to the day he's had; dirt crusted under his fingernails, grass stains on his knees and elbows, and splatters of blood on his shirt collar. He smells like soil and iron and salt. 

"Buck?" prompts Steve, kissing him again. 

"Fine," Bucky says, nodding stiffly. "I'm—fine."

Alpine barges in, rearing up to put both paws on Bucky's leg, crying at him for attention, and Bucky makes a pained sound, shuddering as he sways into Steve's arms. He wraps him in an embrace, Bucky muffling a ragged sob in Steve's chest. 

"You're okay," Steve soothes. "I've got you."

Bending at the knee, Steve scoops Bucky up, cradling him against his chest. "C'mon, I'll put you in a nice bath and while you soak, I can feed Alpine if you tell me what to do." He kisses Bucky's brow gently as he walks him across the apartment. "I know you love to do that."

Bucky makes a sound caught between a sob and a laugh, slapping at Steve halfheartedly. "I do," he agrees. "But it does take s-some of the fun out when you s-say it."

Steve only hums, kissing him again as he sets him down gently on the edge of the tub and turns on the jacuzzi. It seems like just minutes ago he was doing this with Bucky in a very different context. Now, Bucky fumbles himself out of his clothes, Steve catching him when he almost tips over. When he’s naked, Steve helps him into the water. "Before Alpine decides she's starving to death and tries to eat us, what should I give her?"

Bucky peers up at him through guileless eyes. "There are little prepared meals for her in the refrigerator."

Steve noticed the tupperware containers earlier but assumed they were _leftovers_. "Those are for her?"

"Yes," sniffs Bucky, cutting him an arch look. "Of course. Do you think I would feed her something from a can, or worse, a _bag_? She's my princess."

"Well, I'm just happy to see your attitude return, sweetheart. I'll take care of it." Steve gives Bucky's sullen mouth a kiss and then leaves him, heading to the kitchen to do as he’s bid. He prepares the meal per the label printed carefully on the container and puts it out for Alpine, who hurries in with a kittenish trill to start devouring it immediately. 

"You're as spoiled as he is," Steve tells her fondly. She soundly ignores him and Steve smiles as he heads back to the bathroom.

When Steve steps into the doorway, he pauses, overcome with a wave of affection so strong it staggers him. Bucky is—languishing, really. He's stretched his legs out in the enormous tub, one knee drawn up and one arm tucked over the side, and he's slumped down into the steaming water. He's staring at nothing, his hair a tumble of thick curls over one slender shoulder. 

He's the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen. 

Capable and cuttingly witty, with a good, soft heart that he's shielded securely with a paper-thin veneer of vanity and disdain. 

"Admiring me?" Bucky murmurs, lifting his head to meet Steve's eyes. 

"Always," Steve says, sitting down on the edge of the tub. "You're beautiful."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "No need to flatter me. You've already taken up plenty of space in my good graces."

"I intend to flatter you every day for as long as you'll let me," Steve says quietly. "Hopefully forever."

"Oh no," says Bucky, voice sounding suspiciously scratchy. "You've gone and brought feelings into this. Didn't I warn you not to fall in love with me?"

"I don't believe you did," says Steve, unable to hide his smile. "I think I would have remembered something so presumptuous."

"Hmph." Bucky looks away. "I suppose I mistakenly assumed you were smarter than that."

"I seem to remember you thinking I was quite the fool. Seems to me that maybe you didn't think I was wise enough to recognize the treasure I'd found in you." Steve trails fingertips along Bucky's leg where it peeks enticingly above the surface of the water, silky smooth and warm. "And I don't think I could ever be so foolish that I didn't end up falling for you."

Bucky makes a complicated face, finally huffing out, "Would you help me out of here already, I'll wrinkle before long."

Steve hums, withdrawing his hand and turning to find a fluffy towel. He holds one hand out to Bucky and helps him stand before wrapping him up. "You were incredible today. I've never seen you like that, so—"

"Animalistic?" asks Bucky in a perfectly innocent voice, eyebrow lifted.

"Fierce," corrects Steve. "Ferocious, even. It was magnificent."

"A werewolf would find violence attractive," Bucky says, with another roll of his eyes. "I'm gripped with the finality of death, musing deeply on committing a murder, the first and hopefully last time I will ever take a life, and you're looking at me like you can barely stand to make it to bed before you ravish me."

It's completely theatrical; the expression on Bucky's face is what Steve would classify as coy, his large eyes wide and guileless. The ring of blue is glowing faintly around blown pupils, and the heat of the bath has brought a tempting flush to the surface all over Bucky's body. 

A growl rumbles out of Steve involuntarily. "I can be impressed by you and still understand that you're grappling with conflicted morals," he says roughly, taking Bucky's soft chin between thumb and forefinger. "I can still want to throw you down and worship you."

Bucky's plush lips part, pink tongue darting out to wet them. "My morals aren't that conflicted," he says in a low voice. "I mostly feel relieved."

"Oh, good," Steve says, wrapping his arms around Bucky's waist and throwing him over his shoulder. "Then I'm going to throw you down and ravish you, now."

Bucky shrieks, slamming a fist against Steve's back as he bundles him into the bedroom. "You brute! You absolute caveman! I believe you said _worship_."

"That, too," Steve says brightly. He bends at the waist, spilling Bucky onto his expensive silk sheets. He pauses for just a moment to strip out of his borrowed shorts and t-shirt, before climbing on top of Bucky. 

Bucky's hand finds its way into Steve's hair, pulling sharply, and their mouths meet in a rough, biting kiss.

Bucky arches up against Steve's body, ready and willing as he wraps his legs around Steve's hips. Their cocks slide together and Steve groans, pulls back to huff and scent along Bucky's jaw and throat. "Gonna fuck you until you scream."

"Promise?" laughs Bucky, dragging nails down Steve's back, spurring him on.

"Brat." Steve pulls back, playfully glaring down as he reaches blindly for the side drawer, yanking it open so hard it nearly falls to the ground. 

"Watch it, that's an antique!" cries Bucky, because of course it is. Steve would assume no less. 

Steve barks a laugh, grabbing the lube; he doesn’t waste much time on foreplay, pressing two, then three, fingers into Bucky in quick succession, prying him open mercilessly. 

With a hiss, Bucky's mouth falls open, but his body bears obediently down, pushing onto the intrusion. " _Bastard_."

"Now, now," chides Steve, leaning in for another biting kiss. "We've talked about this. Be a good boy."

"Make me," Bucky fires back, fangs dropped and eyes flashing. 

Steve's cock aches just at the sight of him. "Gladly." 

Pulling his fingers free, Steve efficiently slicks his cock before guiding it into place, Bucky barely prepped enough to take it. He practically yowls like a cat, yanking hard on Steve's hair again as his mouth falls open, his neck bared as he arches back. "Oh—Oh, fuck, you brute, you animal—"

"You love it," growls Steve, happy and riled up. He easily pins Bucky's wrists to the bed as he slams deep, fully seating himself with a blaze of sensation.

Bucky groans, head tipping back into the pillows, his mouth slack. The heat and pressure of his body, the tight clutch of his hole around Steve's throbbing cock, is like a drug. Arousal burns in Steve, pleasure rolling through him as he pulls out sharply only to slam back in, and they both cry out, overcome. 

"Oh, fuck," Bucky mumbles thickly, rocking back for more, his hips angled to take Steve as deeply as he can. "Oh, god, yes." 

"See?" Steve says, nipping at Bucky's lower lip. "I knew you could be good."

Bucky squirms, his eyes heavy-lidded as he twists his wrists in Steve's tight grip, not fighting to get free but testing the force Steve's caged him in with. Steve rolls his hips, forcing a low moan out of Bucky. His cock curves up against his belly, flushed a rosy pink, the head red and wet. 

"You're not going to touch my dick, are you?" Bucky says, flexing his hands into loose fists. "O-oh, fuck, Steve, please."

"Do you even need me to touch your dick?" Steve teases, nipping at Bucky's throat this time. "It looks so pretty just like that. I'd hate to disturb it."

"You are truly insufferable," Bucky grunts. He jerks along the mattress with each rhythmic thrust of Steve's hips, Steve tightening his grip on his wrists to hold him firmly in place. 

"I'm giving you everything you need. You can always trust in that," Steve rumbles. He drags his nose along Bucky's jaw, sighing contentedly. "Take it for me, honey. You can come, just like this. Take the edge off a little, hm?"

Bucky makes a soft, hurt sound, knees tightening around Steve's sides, pressing in, and Steve rolls his hips, grinds in dirty and deep as he breathes hot and close against Bucky's skin. "Come on, baby boy, give it up for daddy."

"Ah!" gasps Bucky, jerking against Steve, coming like a shot, wet between their bodies. 

Steve growls, flexing his fingers around Bucky's wrists. "Yeah, that's it, that's my boy."

Bucky's eyes are wide and wet with unshed tears, lashes clumped as he shakes through the aftershocks of his orgasm. "Oh, _oh_ , oh."

Steve sucks in a sharp breath, enjoying the way Bucky squeezes around his cock with rhythmic heat, milking him. Scraping his teeth against Bucky's throat, Steve licks up the flecks of blood that rise up from the welts. " _Daddy_."

"Yeah, that's it, that's so fucking good. You're mine."

Bucky sobs, shuddering beneath him. He shuts his eyes tightly, tears spilling over. "Am I?" he asks in a small voice. 

Steve rumbles, a hot surge of lust blooming at the base of his gut. He closes his mouth around the slender column of Bucky's throat and lets his teeth prick into his skin, breathing hotly against him. 

"Steve," whispers Bucky, pinned open beneath him. "If you say that, if you really mean it, you can't take it back."

Steve soothes the hurt with his tongue, snuffling and licking and kissing at the marks he's left behind. He's gripped with possessive desire, eloquence taking a backseat to the instinctive urge to claim. "Wouldn't," he rasps. His thrusts have slowed, but he hasn't stopped, and he's close to spilling. "Want to keep you."

"Let me touch you," Bucky cries, "Please!"

Steve releases his wrists, and Bucky clutches at Steve's shoulders like he's a drowning man thrown a life preserver at sea. His nails rake sharp lines of pain down Steve's back.

"Ready for me?" Steve murmurs. "Want my knot, baby? Wanna be mine?"

"Y-yeah, fuck me, fill me, _breed me_ ," he demands, the filth tripping from his tongue so naturally that Steve barely registers it.

When it does hit him, he stutters forward and blows his knot, coming in wave after wave as Bucky spasms around him so intensely that Steve blacks out.

When he comes to, Bucky's hot little mouth is dragging over his skin in silent question and Steve can only moan in the affirmative. He’s dimly aware of the sharp prick of teeth, and then another wave of pleasure overtakes Steve until he's panting heavily over Bucky.

For his part, Bucky is all but purring, a quiet hum of satisfaction emanating from him as he sucks greedily at Steve's throat. "Mine," sighs Steve. "You're all mine, Buck. Forever."

Bucky is still intent on feeding, mouth fixed firmly to Steve's throat, but he hums at Steve's words. 

Even as Steve relaxes into the aftermath, pleasure washing over him, Bucky clings even tighter, wrapped around Steve like he'll never let go. It's exactly what Steve needs, animal brain sated by the warmth and safety of his partner tucked under and around him, Steve buried deep in him, tied together. 

His heartbeat settles, slows back to normal, while his pulse throbs in his ears in time with the sucking pressure of Bucky's mouth. It's like a lullaby, and Steve drifts sleepily in fuzzy warmth. 

Bucky draws his fangs out with a lingering sweep of his tongue. Steve stirs, barely able to stand that it's over. 

For a moment, they're both quiet, but then Bucky breaks the silence. "I've gone and done it, too, you know."

Steve sighs, curling his fingers into Bucky's hair. "Done what?"

"Fallen in love."

Steve’s been in love before, and it was true and good and he wouldn’t trade it for anything, but he feels different this time. He feels a resonant permanency, an intimate understanding, a kinship with Bucky beyond human comprehension. He feels like a ship that’s found harbor, and he can only crush their mouths together, claiming Bucky again with a hard kiss. 

Bucky’s mouth tastes of blood, rich and coppery, and his body thrums with the magic between them. This is for them. This is for the rest of their time on this earth, bound to each other as much as to the land of the living. 

“Will you move in with me?” blurts Steve. “I want to take care of you all the time. I want you next to me. Want to introduce you to the pack, and meet your family—”

Bucky laughs shakily. “You know, you’re lucky I meant that. You just went full steam ahead, huh?”

“I’m not taking any chances. I want you with me.”

Bucky meets his gaze, cupping the side of Steve’s face. “And I will be. We can do all those things but, uh...” he glances down between their bodies. “Can we save planning the family vacation for when you’re not balls deep?”

Steve huffs, nuzzling at the underside of Bucky's jaw. "I don't know what you're talking about. Momentous conversations about the future are perfect for when two people are literally locked together. What else are we supposed to do?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Next time, I'll make sure I have a craft within reach. Maybe I'll learn to knit."

Even just hearing Bucky say the words _next time_ settles with pleasant warmth in his chest. "Cross-stitch?"

"I already know how to do that."

"A man of many talents."

"Speaking of talents..."

Later, when Steve can finally bring himself to literally and figuratively let Bucky go, he sets up his easel at the foot of Bucky's bed while Bucky strolls lazily through his bedroom lighting candles wearing nothing but fading bite marks. He looks well-fucked and well-fed, skin warm and pink under the candescent glow of tens of flickering flames. 

When the lighting is satisfactory, Bucky poses himself, lounging comfortably on the rumpled bed sheets, his hair tumbling thick and messy over his shoulder. 

"It should be a position you can hold," Steve reminds him, naked himself, because how could he argue with Bucky's refusal to be drawn nude if Steve didn't also give him something nice to look at?

"Oh, please," murmurs Bucky, rolling onto his side and drawing one graceful leg up to artfully hide his soft cock. He props himself up onto one elbow and narrows his eyes at Steve. "I'm no amateur, here, Rogers."

Steve chuckles softly. "Of course not."

Under the radiant warmth of golden light, Bucky smiles, small and genuine, and just for Steve. "I'm ready."

Steve nods, transfixed. "That's perfect." _You’re perfect_. 

Setting charcoal to paper, Steve starts to draw.

* * *

* * *

**epilogue**.

The overnight flight from New York to Dublin is perfect for a vampire.

They take off in the early evening and land before dawn, comfortable in first class, where Steve sleeps for almost the whole flight. When he wakes up just before they land, he finds Bucky fully reclined in his own seat, buried in one of Steve’s hoodies, the window shade pulled down. 

“You rest at all?” Steve murmurs, stretching leisurely. 

Bucky stirs immediately, letting out a huff as he pushes up his ruffled pink sleep mask. “No. But I have had about a hundred imaginary conversations with your mother. She hated me in every single one of them.”

Steve makes a soothing noise, taking Bucky’s hand in his and kissing his knuckles. “She’s not going to hate you, honey.”

“I’m a vampire!” says Bucky, as if that explains everything. 

“Yes, but that doesn’t explain her supposed ire toward you.” Steve reaches out, tucking a piece of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “She’s got no reason to hold a grudge against you.”

“Ugh,” mumbles Bucky. “I’m American, I’m young, I’m hardly the proper choice for someone who has reminded me repeatedly that he’s practically _royalty_!”

"I was being a little dramatic," Steve says dryly. "She'll be as charmed by you as I am."

Bucky grunts, turning his face sullenly away. Steve lets him sulk, both of them quiet as they land and collect their carry on luggage, disembarking the plane and heading through the crowd for immigration. Bucky gets more and more antsy the longer they wait in line, settling only when Steve wraps his arm around Bucky's shoulders and kisses the top of his head. 

"Well," mumbles Bucky afterwards, flipping through his brand new passport. "At least I have a nice stamp."

They grab a cab from the airport and head straight for their hotel, where Bucky immediately disappears into the bathroom to take a shower while Steve orders a full Irish breakfast up to their room. Steve, correctly anticipating that Bucky would need ample time to prepare before meeting Sarah Rogers, has let his mother know they will drive out to see her at the cottage after lunch, giving Bucky several hours to perfect his outfit and appearance.

The food arrives and Steve lays it out on the coffee table. When Bucky emerges from the shower, fussing with his robe and still looking flustered, Steve tugs him down into his lap on the couch, wrapping his arms around him and kissing his plush lips. "Hush," he says as soon as Bucky opens his mouth, no doubt to insist he has to hurry and get ready. "You've got hours and hours to improve upon perfection. Let me feed you, love."

Bucky huffs, but relaxes against him. "Fine, but I think perhaps after this you ought to fuck me and let me feed so I'm—I'm as lifelike as I can be."

Steve lifts an eyebrow, hiding a smirk. If they fuck before going to see his mother, she'll be able to tell, but he's not going to tell Bucky that. "If that's what you want. Now come on, open up."

Bucky gives him another withering look but obeys, mouth popping open for Steve to feed him a bite.

He starts him off on toast, sausage, and a few of the grilled mushrooms, but when Bucky has fully relaxed, melting into his lap with his eyes closed, Steve breaks off a crumbly piece of black pudding and holds it out. As expected, Bucky accepts the bite without looking, then makes a soft noise, opening his eyes and sitting up again. 

"What the fuck is that," he mumbles through a full mouth, chewing speculatively. His nose wrinkles, but seemingly not in distaste, just confusion.

"Black pudding," says Steve. 

"Black—what," says Bucky. "First of all, that's not pudding. That’s sausage. Second of all, that's made with blood."

"You like it?" asks Steve, taking his own bite, the rich flavour bursting across his tongue. 

"Yes," says Bucky. "Stop that, you're eating it all."

Steve laughs, obediently scooping up another bite, and this time he brings it to Bucky's lips instead of his own. Bucky accepts the offering, chewing again, his cheeks puffing up a bit as he pouts at Steve. "Is it disgusting that I want the recipe so I can figure out how to incorporate human blood instead?"

Steve snorts. "No, so long as it's not mine. I draw the line at being baked into a pudding."

Bucky rolls his eyes and then snatches the fork from Steve, devouring the rest of the sausage rounds at a truly astonishing pace. Steve is amused. "Greedy little hedonist," he mutters, kissing Bucky's temple. 

"You indulge me, it's not my fault," sniffs Bucky, licking the tines of the fork. He turns in Steve's lap, fluidly parting his legs to straddle him. "Now, take me to bed at once."

"Your wish is my command, honey," Steve murmurs, wrapping Bucky up into his arms and doing exactly that. 

Sex and feeding goes a long way to calming Bucky down; he makes Steve do all the work, reclined on his back like the pillow princess he is, arms and legs wrapped tightly around Steve's shoulders and hips. Bucky's eyes are closed, pressed cheek to cheek with Steve, and when Steve knots him, Bucky nuzzles his face against Steve's throat, teeth slipping easily into his flesh accompanied by a hot rush of pleasure. 

If Steve's blood has ruined Bucky for anything else, as he so often complains, then Bucky has ruined Steve for sex that doesn't come part and parcel with a little recreational blood-letting. 

By the time they're finished, Bucky groans and drags his nails over Steve's scalp. "I have to take another shower."

"Excuse me," mutters Steve, burrowing as deeply as he can into the tight warmth of Bucky's body. "I was prepared to just feed you a regular breakfast."

Bucky doesn't respond, squirming out from under Steve now that his knot has gone down. "You may as well join me," he adds as he disappears into the bathroom, calling after, "You smell even to me!"

Steve huffs, lifting his arm to give himself a whiff. It's not that bad. Bucky is being dramatic again, the sky is blue, the sun sets in the west. Still, Steve won't pass up the invitation, dragging himself out of bed and following Bucky into the shower. 

They don't have sex again, but Steve enjoys helping Bucky bathe almost as much. 

Bucky smirks at him as he steps out of the shower and steals the second clean robe that should be meant for Steve. "Thank you, Daddy."

Steve doesn't protest. He can live without creature comforts. Besides, he'll admit he enjoys Bucky's brattiness as much as when he corrects it later. Which he will, tonight, when they're alone again.

The rest of the morning passes with them both getting ready, although Steve is finished within half an hour, beard trimmed and hair combed. He's wearing a deep green sweater and charcoal slacks with black loafers, smart and dressy without going overboard for the occasion of dinner at his mother's home. 

He settles on the couch again to watch television, keeping the open doorway to the bedroom in view so he can watch Bucky flit back and forth trying on as many outfits as necessary.

It takes him a good three hours. 

Steve goes in and out of a light doze, and every time he opens his eyes again to see where Bucky is at, he finds him doing a variety of things, including: his twenty step skincare routine; brushing and curling his hair; putting on makeup and jewelry; trying on a truly excessive amount of clothes.

The final look is surprisingly simple, though Steve can see how carefully calculated it is. Every single loose curl is perfectly smooth and arranged meticulously, the understated jewelry he's chosen draws attention to his delicate features, and he's applied eyeliner to make his eyes pop, as well as lined his lush, full lips. 

He's wearing gray and blue to the best possible advantage, well-pressed trousers with a crisp buttoned shirt that's open to his clavicle. He spends fifteen minutes selecting a jacket to pair with it, when Steve finally grabs his wallet and keys, saying, "Buck, we need to leave."

"Oh," says Bucky, that airy flustered tone back in his voice. "Oh, five more minutes. I just—"

Steve catches his hand, pulling him in, extremely careful not to disturb his hours of work. "Bucky. Sweetheart. You look beautiful."

Bucky's cheeks flush becomingly, even as he worries at his pink lips with sharp little teeth. "You're just saying that."

"You know I don't _just_ say anything," he replies mildly. "When I tell you you're the most beautiful man I've ever known and that you have truly, stunningly outdone yourself today, I damn well mean it."

Bucky's mouth twists into a helpless, reluctant smile and he slaps Steve's shoulder with an accompanying footstomp. "Oh, don't! You'll make me cry!"

Steve laughs warmly and pulls Bucky in to kiss his cheek gently. "Come on, Buck, let's go make my mother happy to see what a wonderful person I've found to spend my life with."

Bucky pouts at him, blinking rapidly as he pulls away and picks up the jacket he probably already knew he wanted to wear and slips it on, finally allowing Steve to usher him from the hotel. 

Bucky is quiet on the drive, occasionally breaking from his reverie to turn toward Steve and demand answers. "So, your mother is the head of your pack, right?"

"Yes, one of them. The packs are governed by a group of elders. She just happens to be the eldest."

"How do you even keep track of that? Aren't you all immortal?"

"Yes," grants Steve. "But immortality without end can be...numbing. Our elders will sometimes choose to pass on."

Bucky bites at his lip again. "But...that's not what happened with your father."

"No," agrees Steve. "He went to help the humans in a bloody war. He didn't make it back home again."

"And your mother never remarried...?"

"No. We werewolves are stubborn that way," says Steve, taking Bucky's hand in his and bringing it to his lips to kiss. "Once we find who we're meant to be with, we tend not to look again."

Colour blooms over Bucky's cheeks, his eyes immediately glossy with unshed tears. "Steve," he says in a wobbly voice. "If you don't stop right now, I'm going to cry off all my makeup, and I'll be so upset with you for making me face your mother like this."

"I'm sorry, honey," Steve says soothingly. "I'll save it for when we're safely in private, hmm?"

Bucky makes a _hmph_ noise, dabbing discreetly at the corner of his eye with an honest-to-god handkerchief. 

"Try not to fret so much," continues Steve. "My mother is going to love you. She'll want to know what you think of the countryside, so relax and enjoy the view, okay? Look at that—there's a storm rolling in."

Bucky turns his head, looking out the passenger side window. They're driving south, along the coast, and thunderheads dominate the gray sky, striking against the curve of the green hills. 

"It's like a fairytale," Bucky says quietly. "Two hundred years, and I never once left New York."

"And now I get to show you everything else," says Steve. "I'd say I got pretty lucky."

Bucky rolls his eyes at this, apparently over Steve's show of sentimentality. "You're ridiculous. I suppose you'll tell me Ireland is the best thing I'll ever see? I seem to remember your countrymen being very proud."

"We're a tad bit biased, I'll admit." Steve shrugs, unashamed. "But like you said...it's like a fairytale. My pack's been here since werewolves and humans walked the hills. It's my home."

"Well, at the very least, I'm looking forward to seeing more of it while we're here. I want you to show me every part of it you love."

"Well, in that case, we should probably extend our reservations." Steve grins and Bucky huffs at him. 

After about an hour, they pull down the long cobbled lane to his mother's home, winding through the impressive garden she keeps until they're able to park. Steve hops out and circles the car, opening the door for Bucky. He gets a sharp look in return, but he accepts Steve’s offered hand and allows himself to be helped from the car.

Steve shuts the door behind him, and Bucky takes a singular step forward on the cobbles before stopping short. 

"Steve," says Bucky, his voice wavering. 

"Sweetheart," Steve says warmly, taking both his hands in his and turning them so that Steve can block out the cottage with his body. "Look at me, Buck."

Bucky does, turning wide eyes up to Steve's face and looking at him pleadingly. His mouth is an exaggerated pout, expression anguished. "Don't make fun of me," Bucky says in a thin voice, sniffling a little. 

"I'm not," Steve murmurs, leaning in to kiss him softly. "What are you so scared of, honey? Tell me, please."

"That—" Bucky falters, his gaze cutting away. "That she won't like me. That I'm not—good enough—"

"If I had any fears at all that this would not be a good experience for both of you, I wouldn't subject you to it." Steve leans in, coaxing Bucky with a small kiss. "Please trust me, I would never put you in a situation where I thought you might get hurt, even where it concerns my mother."

Bucky blinks quickly and nods, the tip of his nose red. "Okay," he croaks. And then clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. "Fine then, let's...let's go."

"Sure?"

"Yes! There's no need to fuss."

Steve chuckles, steals one more kiss, and then turns with his arm around Bucky, guiding him up the lit walkway to the front door. He gives Bucky a squeeze as he lifts the knocker and bangs it down three times. 

The door flies open, and there stands Sarah Rogers—golden hair, piercing blue eyes, sharp jaw, and bright, warm smile. 

She's all of 5'7", shorter than Bucky, but she has the energy of a fierce warrior, and when her gaze flicks from Steve to Bucky, her smile grows even brighter as she steps forward and drags him into a tight hug. "Oh Bucky, I'm so glad to meet you."

For a moment, Steve can see Bucky tense in surprise. 

Then his arms come up around her and he sags into the embrace. "The pleasure is all mine," he says weakly. 

Over Bucky's shoulder, Sarah meets Steve's eye and winks. 

This feels like the final piece of the puzzle. His mother and his partner both in the same place. It's all he can do not to rumble out a mindless growl of satisfaction. 

"Aren't you just the loveliest thing," says Sarah, stepping back, both hands braced on Bucky's upper arms as she looks him over. "Are you hungry? I made dinner. Come in, come in. It's starting to rain again."

With a hand on the small of Bucky's back, Steve's guides him into the warmth and light of his childhood home.

**end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see you, space cowboy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bittersweet in the Sunlight - fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702572) by [kocuria-visuals (kocuria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals)




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